
QmFJSAVjS 



Book_i. 




CjOFmiGHLT DEBOSm 



LOYOLA ENGLISH CLASSICS 



Loyola Book of 
Verse 

JOHN F. QUINN, S.J. 



^^GUSa^ 




Loyola University Press 

CHICAGO 



/ 




Loyola Book of Verse 



With Biographical, Explanatory and 
Critical notes 



Compiled and Axxotated 

BY 

JOHN F. QUINN, S.J 

Loyola University 
Chicago 




LOYOLA UNIVERSITY PRESS 

Chicago, Illinois 

1922 







COPYRIGHT, 1922 

BY 

LOYOLA UNIVERSITY 

CHICAGO, ILL. 



SEP 19 '22 



INDEX OF TITLES 

Papf 

Aboil Ben Adiiem (Hunt) 22 

After Blenheim (Southey) .*.'.'.'.".'.' 29 

Ah, Sweet is Tipperary (McCarthy) 122 

Alexandc^- 's Feast (Dryden) '. .".".'.'.'.'.' 198 

Annabel Lee (Poe) . . .' '.'.*..'.,.**.'* IS':' 

Apostrophe to the Ocean (Byron) .' 69 

At High Mass (Benson) . . /. 181 

At Xazareth (Walsh) !!!.'!.'.'.' 172 

Autumn Rose-Tree, An (Earls) .'.*.'.'.'.".'.'.'.'.' 91 

Ballade of Prose and Rhyme (Dobson) 245 

Ballad of Trees and the Master (Lanier) llfi 

Bells, The (Poe) .'.'.■.■.'.*.'.■.■.■ i4 

Benedicite (Wilton) 248 

Benedictio Domini (Dowson) ^qn 

Birds, The (Belloc) '.'.'.'.'.'..'. 48 

Boy and the Angel, The (Browning) ............[.... 12 

Break, Break, Break (Tennvson) I53 

Bridge of Sighs, The (Hood) .'...*.' iqs 

Brook, The (Tennyson) I54 

Bugle Song ( Tennyson) ............]][ 156 

Burial of Sir John Moore, The (Wolfe) .'.'.' 40 

Burning Babe, The (Southwell) 149 

Castle of Chillon, The (Bvron) ISl 

Chambered Nautilus, The "(Holmes) ino 

Child's Wish, A (Ryan) . .'.'.'.*.■.'.■.■.' 136 

Chorus from ^\talanta' (Swinburne) [,[ 150 

Christmas (Aline Kilmer) ' ' ] ^11 

Christmas Song, A (Brayton) .'.'.'.'.'.".' 53 

Claribel (Tennvson) -, -j^ 

Cloud, The (Shelley) ."*.'.'.'.'.' I40 

Christopher Columbus (Tai)b) 15^ 

Crossing the Bar (Tennyson) .".*.'.'.'.'.".*.'.'.".*.' .' 16-" 

Daffodils, The (Wordsworth) 275 

Da Greata Basaball (Daly) .*.*.*..'.' 970 

Daisy ( Thompson) .'..'.*.'..* Ig-j 

Deacon 's Masterpiece, The (Holmes) 075 

Dead Astronomer, A (Thompson) .'.'.'.".*." 165 

Divina Commedia (Longfellow) ... i c.rr 

Donkey, The (Chesterton) oj^ 

Dorothy Q. (Holmes) .".'.".*.'.*.'.'.*.'.'.".' 101 

Elegy in a Country Churchyard (Grav) 91 

Etude Realiste (Swinburne) '. . . 05-, 

Eve of Waterloo, The (Byron) .'..'.'.*.*." .* .' .' .* .]][ [ ] [ ' .' ." .' "71 

Faithless Nellv Grav (Hood) 970- 

Fanie (Tabb) ....'. [[[ J^^ 



"^11^ LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

Song- of Laug'hter, A (Maynard) 122 

►Song of the Mystic (Ryan) 137 

Sonnet on the Sonnet (Wordsworth) 188 

Sparrow, The (Daly) 85 

Spring Magic (Daly) 87 

Tears, Idle Tears (Tennyson) 159 

Thanatopsis (Bryant) 62 

Three Fishers, The (Kingsley) 16 

Tiger, The (Blake) 50 

Tithonus ( Tennyson) 157 

To a Mouse (Burns) 75 

To a Skylark (Shelley) 146 

To a; Skylark (Wordsworth) 177 

To a Waterfowl (Bryant) 64 

To Autumn (Keats) 109 

To My Mother (Poe) ,.[ 134 

To the Cuckoo (Wordsworth) 174 

To the Daffodil (Scollard) 257 

To the Night (Shelley) 145 

To the Nightingale in September ("Love in Idleness'').... 256 

Too Hard It is to Sing (Dobson) 248 

Toys, The (Patmore) 128 

Treasure Box, The (Daly) 89 

Trees (Joyce Kilmer) 115 

Two Voices, The (Wordsworth) 188 

Ulysses (Tennyson) 160 

Vigil of the Immaculate Conception (Egan) 92 

A^illanelle (Henley) 256 

Virgin, The (Wordsworth) 189 

Walrus and the Carpenter, The (Carroll) 266 

We are Seven (Wordsworth) 41 

What No Man Knoweth (Blunt) 51 

When Burbadge Played (Dobson) 249 

When Runnels Began to Leap and Sing (Austin) 47 

Why the Robin's Breast is Red (Randall) 135 

Wishes for My Son (MacDonagh) 118 

With Pipe and Flute (Dobson) 249 

With Strawberries (Henley) 250 

vN^orld 's Miser, The (Maynard) 121 

Yarn of the ' ' Nancy Bell, ' ' The (Gilbert) 272 

Young Priest to His Hands, The (Garesche) 93 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND POEMS 

Narrative Poems 

Page 
Arnold, Matthew 

The Forsaken Merman 1 

Saint Brandan 5 

Browning, Robert 

My Last Duchess 7 

Incident of the French Camp 9 

The Patriot 10 

The Boy and the Angel 12 

Keats, John 

La Belle Dame sans Merci 14 

KiNGSLEY, Charles 

Tlie Three Fishers 16 

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth 

The Skeleton in Armor 17 

Hunt, Leigh 

Abou Ben Adhem 22 

PoE, Edgar Allan 

The Raven , 23 

Scott, Walter 

Lochinvar 28 

SouTHEY, Robert 

After Blenheim 29 

Tennyson, Alfred 

The Lotos-Eaters 31 

Lady Clare 37 

■\V0LFE, Charles 

The Burial of Sir John Moore 40 

Wordsworth, William 

W^e Are Seven 41 

Lyric Poems 

Page 
Aldrich, Thomas Bailey 

Gulielmus Rex 47 

Austin, Alfred 

WHien Runnels Began to Leap and Sing 47 

IX 



X 



LOYOLA BOOK OF VEKSE 



Belloc, Hilaire 

The Birds 48 

Our Lord and Our Lady 49 

Blake, William 

The Lamb 50 

The Tiger 50 

Blunt, Hugh Francis 

What No Man Knoweth 51 

The King 's Highway 52 

BouRDiLLON, Francis W. 

Light 52 

Braytox, Teresa 

A Christmas Song 53 

Browning, Robert 

Home-Thoughts from Abroad 54 

Rabbi Ben Ezra 55 

Bryant, William Cullen 

Thanatopsis 62 

To a Waterfowl 64 

Byron, Lord 

The Isles of Greece 66 

Apostrophe to the Ocean 69 

She Walks in Beauty 71 

The Ere of Waterloo 71 

Burns, Robert 

For a' That, and a' That 73 

O My Luve 's Like a Red, Red Rose 74 

To a Mouse 75 

Campbell, Thomas 

The Last Man 77 

Carbery, Ethna 

Mea Culpa 79 

Chesterton, Gilbert Keith 

The Donkey 80 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 

Kubla Khan 81 

Collins, William 

Ode Written in 1746 83 

CoLUM, Padraic 

An Old Woman of the Roads 84 



Index of Authors and Poems ^^ 

Crashaw, Richard 

Lazarus ' Tears 85 

Saint Teresa - 85 

Daly, S. J., James J. 

The Sparrow • 85 

Spring Magic 87 

Daly, T. A. 

A Song for March 88 

The Treasure Box 89 

De Vere, Aubrey 

May Carol 90 

DoAvsox, Ernest 

Benedictio Domini 90 

Earls, S. J., Michael 

An Autumn Rose-T^ee 91 

Egan, Maurice Francis 

Vigil of the Immaculate Conception 92 

Garesche, S. J., Edward F. 

The Young Priest to his Hands 93 

Gray, Thomas 

Elegy in a Country Churchyard 94 

HiNKSON, Katherine Tynan 

The Man in the House 98 

Hogg, James 

The Skylark 99 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell 

The Chambered Nautilus 100 

Dorothy Q 101 

Hood, Thomas 

The Bridge of Sighs 103 

Johnson, Lionel 

Oxford 106 

Keats, John 

To Autumn 109 

The Mermaid Tavern 110 

Kelly, Blanche Mary 

The Housewife 's Prayer , 110 

Kilmer, Aline 

Christmas Ill 

I Shall Not Be Afraid : 112 



XII LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

Kilmer, Joyce 

The House with Nobody in It 112 

Prayer of a Soldier in France 114 

Servant Girl and Grocer Boy 114 

Trees .* 115 

Laxier, Sidney 

Ballad of Trees and the Master 116 

Leslie, Shaxe 

Ireland, Mother of Priests 116 

MacDoxagh, Thomas 

Wishes for My Son 118 

Markham, Edwin 

The Man with the Hoe 119 

Maynard, Theodore 

The World's Miser 121 

A Song of Laughter 122 

McCarthy, Denis A. 

Ah, Sweet is Tipperary 122 

Meyxell, Alice 

The Shepherdess 123 

Moore, Thomas 

Pro Patria Mori . 124 

Newman, Cardixal 

Lead, Kindly Light 125 

O 'Eeilly, John Boyle 

Ireland 125 

Patmore, Coventry 

The Toys 12S 

Plunkett, Joseph Mary 

I See His Blood upon the Rose 129 

POE, Edgar Allan 

The Bells 129 

Annaljfel Lee 132 

To My Mother 134 

Pope, Alexander 

Solitude 134 

Eaxdall, James Ryder 

Why the Robin's Breast is Red 135 

Ryax, Abram J. 

A Child's Wish 136 

Song of the Mystic * 137 



Index of Authors and Poems ^m 

Scott, Walter 

Hunting Song 139 

Hymn to the Virgin 140 

Sheehan, Canon Patrick A. 

A Prophecy . . . , 1^0 

Shelley, Percy B. 

The Cloud 1-12 

To the Night l-lo 

To a Skylark 1^6 

Southwell, S. J., Robert 

The Burning Babe 1-19 

Swinburne, Algernon Charles 

Chorus from ' Atalanta ' 150 

The Salt of the Earth 152 

Tabb, John ,B. 

Christopher Columbus 152 

Fame lo3 

Father Damien 153 



^'^ 



Tennyson, Alfred 

Break, Break, Break 15 

The Brook 154 

Claribel 15G 

Bugle Song 15*3 

Tithonus 157 

Tears, Idle Tears 159 

Ulysses 160 

Crossing the Bar 162 

Thompson, Francis 

Daisy 163 

A Dead Astronomer 165 

Lilium Regis 166 

Lines for a Di-awing of Our Lady of the Night 167 

Love and the Child 167 

The Making of Viola 168 

Little Jesus 170 

Walsh, Thomas 

At Nazareth 172 

Whitman, Walt 

O Captain ! My Captain ! 173 

Wordsworth, William 

To the Cuckoo. 174 

Lucy 175 

The Daffodils 175 



^^^ LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

A Rainbow 176 

She was a Phantom of Delight 176 

To a Skylark 177 

Sonnets 
Benson, Robert Hugh 

At High Mass 181 

Byronj Lord 

The Castle of Chillon 181 

Casement, Roger 

Hamilcar Barca 182 

Daly, S. J., James J. 

Nox Ignatiana 183 

De Vere, Aubrey 

The Rock of Cashel 183 

Hunt, Leigh 

The Grasshopper and the Cricket 184 

Keats, John 

On Reading Chapman's Homer 185 

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth 

Divina Commedia 185 

Milton John 

On His Blindness 186 

RooNEY, John Jerome 

Marquette on the Shores of the Mississippi 186 

Wordsworth, William 

Scorn Not the Sonnet 187 

Sonnet on the Sonnet 188 

The Two Voices 188 

The Virgin 189 

Odes 
Collins, William 

Ode to Evening I93 

The Passions I94 

Dryden, John 

Alexander 's Feast 198 

A Song for St. Cecilia's Day 202 

Garesche, S. J,, Edw^\rd F. 

Niagara 204 

Keats, John 

Ode to a Nightingale 206 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 209 



Index of Authors and Poems^ ^^^ 

Milton, John 

Ode ou the Morniug of Christ's Nativity 210 

Shelley, Percy B. • 

Ode to the West Wind 218 

Thompson, Francis 

The Hound of Heaven 221 

Wordsworth, William 

Intimations and Immortality 234 

t 

FRENCH FORMS 

Ballade 
DoBSON, Austin 

Ballade of Prose and Rhyme 245 

The Pompadour 's .Fan 246 

ScoLLARD, Clinton 

For Me the Blithe Ballade 247 

Rondel 
DOBSON, Austin 

Too Hard It is to Sing 248 

Wilton, Richard 

Benedicite 248 

Rondeau 
DoBSON, Austin 

With Pipe and Flute 249 

When Burbadge Played 249 

Henley, W. E. 

With Strawberries 250 

McCrae, John D. 

Flanders ' Fields 251 

Roundel 
Swinburne, Algernon Charles 

Etude Realiste 251 

Kyrielle 
Faber, Frederick William 

Jesus Crucified 252 

Rondeau Redouble 
Monkhouse, Cosmo 

My Soul Is Sick of Nightingale and Rose 254 

Sestina 
Byrne, Florence M. 

Sestina 255 



X\'I LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

1 

Villanelle 
Hexley, W. E. 

Villanelle 256 

''Love in Idleness" 

To the Nightingale in September 256 

ScoLL^RD, Clinton 

To the Daffodil 257 

Triolet 
MacDonald, George , 

In His Arms 258 

Scollard, Clinton 

A Snowflake in May 258 

Chant Royal 
Scollard, Clinton 

King Boreas 259 

Humorous and Light Verse 
Anon 

The Flute 263 

Mesopotamia 264 

The Modern Hiawatha 264 

Carroll, Lewis 

Jabberwocky «. 265 

The Walnis and the Carpenter 266 

Father William 269 

Daly, T. A. 

Da Greata Basaball 270 

Gilbert, W. S. 

The Yarn of the ' ' Nancy Bell " 272 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell 

The Deacon 's Masterpiece 275 

Hood, Thomas 

Faithless Nelly Gray 278 

Wells, Carolyn 

Parodies 280 



NARRATIVE POEMS 



I 



THE FORSAKEN MERMAN 
Matthew Arnold 

Matthew Arxold (b. 1822, England — d. 1888), son of a prominent 
Anglican clergyman, grachiated from Oxford, and held the chair of poetry 
at Oriel College. He is distinguisjied both as poet and prose writer, and 
as a critic ranks high. His works show that he was a man of wide culture 
and in this respect he resembles Newman, his model, — but while Newman's 
writings breathe a deep religious spirit, Arnold's are entirely lacking in it. 
He wrote Sohrab and Rustum, The Scholar Gypsy, Essays in Criticism, 
Cultxive and Anarchy, Discourses in America. 

This poem is based upon one form of an old legend found in the 
ballads of the northern nations along the sea, viz.: the desire of mermen 
and mermaids for the love of Christians. It was considered dangerous for 
one to expose himself (or herself) to the fascination of the spirits of the 
sea. Most freciuently the loved one was a bridegroom or a bride on the 
eve of marriage, and the love always ended in tragedy. In the story to 
which Mr. Arnold has given such beautiful lyric expression, the wronged 
one is a merman who wooed and wedded a Christian wife, but was de- 
serted by her when at the sound of the church bells ringing at Easter- 
time she went up "through the surf" to say her prayer. Returning after 
a fruitless visit to the town, he addresses his children. 

Come, dear children, let us away, 

DoAvn and away below ! 

Now my brothers call from the bay, 

Now the great winds shoreward blow. 

Now the salt tides seaward flow, 

Now the wild white horses play. 

Champ, and chafe, and toss in the spray, 

Children dear, let us away! 

This way, this way! 

Call her once before you go, 

Call once yet ! 

In a voice that she will know : 

"Margaret ! Margaret !" 

Children's voices should be dear 

(Call once more!) to a mother's ear; 

Cliildren's voices, wild with pain : 

Surely she will come again! 

Call her once and come away; 

This way, this way! 

"Mother dear, we cannot stay; 

The wild white horses foam and fret." 

Margaret ! Margaret ! 

Come, dear children, come away down; 
Call no more ! 

One last look at the white-walFd town, 

1 



LOYOLA BOOK OF ^^RRSE 

And the little grey church on the windy shore; 
Then come down ! 

She will not come though you call all day: 
Come aAvay, come away! 

Children dear, was it yesterday 

We heard the sweet bells over the bay? 

In the caverns where we lay, 

Througli the surf and through the swell, 

The far-off sound of a silver bell? 

Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, 

Where the winds are all asleep; 

Where the spent lights quiver and gleam, 

W^here the salt weed sways in the stream, 

Where the sea-beasts, rang'd all round. 

Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground; 

Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, 

Dry their mail and bask in the brine; 

Where great wliales come sailing by, 

Sail and sail, with unshut eye. 

Round the world for ever and aye : 

When did music come this way? 

Children dear, was it yesterday? 

Children dear, was it yesterday 

(Call yet once!) that she went away? 

Once she sate with you and me. 

On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea. 

And the youngest sate on her knee. 

She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well. 

When down swung the sound of a far-off bell. 

She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea; 

She said: "1 must go. for my kinsfolk pray 

In the little grey church on the shore to-day. 

'T will be Easter-time in the world, ah me! 

And I lose my poor soul, merman ! here with thee." 

I said: "Go up, dear heart, through the waves: 

Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves !" 

She smil'd, she went u]) through the surf in the bay. 

Children dear, was it yesterday? 

Children dear, were we long alone? 

The sea grows stormy; the little ones moan: 



NARRATIVE POEMS 6 

"Long- prayers/' I said, "in the world they say; 

Come !" I said ; and we rose through the surf in the bay. 

We went up the beach, by the sandy down 

Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the \\4iite-waird town; 

Through the narrow pav'd streets, where all was still, 

To the little grey church on the windy hill. 

From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, 

But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. 

We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn with rains, 

And we gaz'd up the aisle through the small leaded panes. 

She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear: 

"Margaret, hist ! come quick, we are here ! 

Dear heart," I said, "we are long alone: 

The sea grows stormy; the little ones moan." 

But, ah, she gave me never a look. 

For her eyes were seaFd to the holy book. 

Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door. 

Come away, children, call no more ! 

Come away, come down, call no more ! 

Down, down, down ! 

Down to the depths of the sea ! — 

She sits at her wheel in the humming town, 

Singing most joyfully. 

Haj'k what she sings: "0 joy, joy. 

For the humming street, and the child with its toy! 

For the 'priest, and the bell, and the holy well ; 

For the wheel where I spun, 

And the blessed light of the sun !" 

And so she sings her fill. 

Singing most joyfully. 

Till the spindle drops from her hand. 

And the whizzing wheel stands still. 

She steals to the window, and looks at the sand, 

And over the sand at the sea; 

And her eyes are set in a stare: 

And anon there breaks a sigh. 

And anon there drops a tear. 

From a sorrow-clouded eye, 

And a heart sorrow-laden; 

A long, long sigh 



LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

For the cold strange eyes of a little mermaiden 
And tlie gleam of her golden hair. 

Come away, away, children; 
Come children, come down! — 
The hoarse wind blows coldly; 
Liglits shine in the town. 
She will start from her slumber 
"When gusts shake the door; 
She will hear the winds howling, 
Will hear the waves roar. 

W"e shall see, while above us 

The waves roar and whirl, 

A ceiling of amber, 

A pavement of pearl. 

Singing: "Here came a mortal, 

But faitldess was she ! 

And alone dwell for ever 

The kings of the sea." 

But, children, at midnight, 

W^hen soft the winds blow, 

W^hen clear falls the moonlight, 

WHien spring-tides are low; 

W^lien sweet airs come seaward 

From heaths starr'd with broom. 

And high rocks throw mildly 

On the blaneh'd sands a gloom; 

Up the still glistening beaches, 

Up the creeks, we will hie. 

Over banks of bright seaweed 

The ebb-tide leaves dry. 

We will gaze, from the sand-hills. 

At the white, sleeping town; 

At the church on the hill-side: 

And then come back down. 

Singing: "There dwells a lov'd one, 

But cruel is she! 

She left lonely for ever 

TJie kings of the sea." 



NARRATIVE POEMS O 

. SAINT BRAND AN 

Matthew Arnold 

While this imaginative poem assumes against' the teaching of the 
Catholic Church that a soul may be temporarily released froni hell, it 
serves its splendid purpose of emphasizing the imiJortance of the smallest 
acts of charity. 

Saint Brandan sails the northern main; 

The brotherhoods of saints are glad. 
He greets them once, he sails again; 

So late! — such storms! — The Saint is mad! 

He heard, across the howling seas, 

Chime convent-bells on wintry nights; 
He saw, on spra3--swept Hebrides,^ 

Twinkle the monastery-lights. 

But north, still north. Saint Brandan steer'd — 

And now no bells, no convents more! 
The hurtling Polar lights are near'd, 

The sea without a human shore. 

At last — (it was the Christmas night; 

Stars shone after a day of storm) — ■ 
He sees float past an iceberg white, 

And on it — Christ!— a living form. 

That furtive mien, that scowling eye, 

Of hair that red and tufted fell — 
It is — Oh, where shall Brandan fly? — 

The traitor, Judas, out of hell! 

Palsied with terror, Brandan sate; 

The moon was bright, the iceberg near. 
He hears a voice sigh humbly : "Wait ! 

By high permission I am here. 

"One moment wait, thou holj' man! 

On earth my crime, my death, they knew; 
My name is under all men's ban — 

Ah, tell them of my respite too! 

"Tell them, one blessed Christmas-night — 

(It was the first after I came. 
Breathing self-murder, frenzy, spite. 

To rue my guilt in endless flame) — 



^Hebrides: A group of islands off the west coast of Scotland. 



LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

"I felt, as I in torment lay 

'Mid the souls plagued by heavenly power, 
An angel touch my arm, and say; 

Go hence and cool thyself an hour! 

"'Ah, whence this mercy, Lord?' I said. 

The Leper recollect, said he. 
Who ask'd the passers-by for aid, 

In Joppa,'- and thy charity. 

"Then I remember'd how I went, 
In Joppa, through a public street, 

One morn when the sirocco'^ spent 

Its storms of dust with burning heat; 

"And in the street a leper sate. 
Shivering with fever, naked, old; 

Sand raked his sores from heel to pate. 
The hot wind fever'd him five-fold. 

"He gazed upon me as I passed. 

And murmur'd: Help me, or I die! — 

To the poor wretch my coat I cast, 
Saw him looked eased, and hurried by. 

"Oh, Brandan, think what grace divine, 
What blessing must full goodness shower, 

When fragment of it small, like mine. 
Hath such inestimable power! 

"Well-fed, well-clothed, well-friended, I 
Did that chance act of good, that one! 

Then went my way to kill and lie — 
Forget my good as soon as done. 

"That germ of kindness, in the womb 
Of mercy caught, did not expire; 

Outlives my guilt, outlives my doom. 
And friends me in the pit of fire. 

"Once every year, when carol^ wake. 
On earth, the Christmas-night's repose, 



-Jojipd: The ancii'iit luune of .Taffa, a town in Syria. 
'^ Siroi'ro : A warm, sullrv wind. 



NARRATIVE POEMS 

Arising- from the sinners' lake, 
I journey to these healing snows. 

"I stanch with ice my burning breast, 
With silence balm my whirling brain. 

Brandan! to this hour of rest 

That Joppan leper's ease was pain."— 

Tears started to Saint Brandan's eyes; 

He bow'd his head, he breathed a prayer- 
Then look'd, and lo, the frosty skies! 

The iceberg, and no Judas there ! 



MY LAST DUCHESS 
Robert Browning 

ROBERT BROWNING (b. 1812. near London— d 1889. Venice), liusband 
of the poetess. Elizabeth Barrett Browning, has been called the Poet ot 
framatkpsychology.'' Author of Pippa Passes, The Ring and the Boole 
Sordello, etc. His extreme votaries rank him with Shakespeare The first 
Browning Club was founded in 1881 for the study and exposition of his 
poetrv which to many was unintelligible. "His truest lover is one who 
takes' him at his best, as an affluent artist, and the most profound modern 
revealer of the human soul, without over-valuing his excess of analysis 

^""^Mrs '^SutheTland Orr in her handbook to the works of Robert Browning 
has the following comment: '"In this poem we find a Jealousy which has 
no love in it; which means the exactingness of self-love, and the tyranny 
of possession. A widowed Duke of Ferrara is exhibiting the portrait ot 
his former wife to the envov of some nobleman whose daughter he pro 
poses to marry and his comments on the countenance of his last Duchess 
plainlv state what he will expect of her successor. That earnest, impas- 
sioned, and vet smiling glance went alike to everyone. She who sent it, 
knew no distinction of things or persons. Everything pleased her ; everyone 
could arouse her gratitude. And it seemed to her husband, from her man- 
ner of showing it, that she ranked his gift, the 'gift of a nine-hundred- 
years-old name,' with that of everyone else. It was below his dignity to 
complain of this state of things, so he put an end to it." The manner ot 
her end was long a discussion with the Browning Societies. Toward the 
end of his life Browning stated in a private conversation that the Duke 
might have had his Duchess put to death by poisoning or immuring, both 
common forms of murder in the Italy of the Renaissance. 

The exquisite courtesy of the brutal and heartless Duke is shown in the 
words, "Nay, well go together down, sir," and --Notice Neptune, though. 

FERRARA 

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, 
Looking as if she w^ere alive. I call 
That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands 
Worked busily a day. and there she stands. 
Wiirt please you sit and look at her"? I said 
"Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read 



LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

Strangers like you that ]>ictured countenance, 
The depth and passion of its earnest glance, 
But to myself they turned (since none puts by 
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) 
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, 
How such a glance came tliere; so, not the first 
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was not 
Her husband's presence only, called that spot 
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps 
Fra Pandolf chanced to say, ''Her mantle laps 
Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint 
Must nev^er hope to reproduce the faint 
Half-flush that dies along her throat :'' such stuff 
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 
For calling up that spot of joy. She had 
A heart— how shall I say? — too soon made glad, 

Too easily impressed; slie liked whate'er 

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. 

Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast. 

The dropping of the daylight in the West, 

The bough of cherries some officious fool 

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule 

She rode with round the terrace — all and each 

Would draw from her alike the approving speech. 

Or blush, at least. She thanked men, — good! but thanked 

Somehow — I know not how — as if she ranked 

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name 

With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame 

This sort of trifling? Even had you skill 

In speech — (which I have not) — to make your will 

Quite clear to such an one, and ssly, "Just this 

Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss. 

Or there exceed the mark"^and if she let 

Herself l)e lessoned so, nor plainly set 

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, 

— E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose 

Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, 

Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without 

iNFucli the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; 

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands 

As if alive. Will 't please you rise? We'll meet 



NARRATIVE POEMS y 

The company below, then. I repeat, 

The Count your master's known munificence 

Is ample warrant tliat no just pretence 

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; 

Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed 

At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go 

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, 

Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity. 

Which Claus of Innsbruck^ cast in bronze for me ! 

''^ Clans of Innsbruck : An imaginary artist. Innsbruck is in the Tyrol. 
It is famous for the bronze Avork on the tomb of the Emperor Maximilian. 

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP 
Robert Browning 

"A boy soldier of tlie army of Napoleon has received his death wonud 
in planting the Imperial flag within the walls of Ratisbon. He contrives 
by a supreme effort to gallop out to the Emperor — who has watched the 
storming of the city from a mound a mile or two away — fling himself from 
the horse, aiid, holding himself erect by its mane, announce the victory. 
No sign of pain escapes him. But when Napoleon suddenly exclaims: 
"You are wounded," tlie soldier's pride in him is touched. "I am killed, 
Sire," he i-e plies ; and, smiling, falls dead at the Emperor's feet. The 
story is true; but its actual hero was a man." Mrs. Sutherland Orr. 

I 

You know, we French^ stormed Ratisbon: 

A mile or so away, 
On a little mound, Napoleon 

Stood on our storming-day; 
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, 

Legs wide, arms locked behind, 
As if to balance the prone brow 

Oppressive with its mind. 

II 
Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans 

That soar, to earth may fall. 
Let once my army-leader Lannes- 

Waver at yonder wall," — 
Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew 

A rider, bound on bound 
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew 

Cntil he reached the mound. 



^ We French: The story is told by a spectator. 
* Lannes : One of Napoleon's generals. 



10 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

III 
Then off there flung in smiling joy, 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse's mane, a boy: 

You hardly could suspect — 
(So tight he kept his lips compressed, 

Scarce any blood came through) 
You looked twice ere you saw his breast 

Was all but shot in two. 

IV 

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace 

We've got you Ratisbon! 
The Marshal 's in tlie market-place, 

And you'll be there anon 
To see your flag-bird^ flap his vans'* 

Where I, to heart's desire, 
Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans 

Soared up again like fire. 

V 

The chief's eye flashed; but presently 

Softened itself, as sheathes 
A film the mother-eagle's eye 

When her bruised eaglet breathes; 
"You're wounded !" "Nay," the soldier's pride 

Touched to the quick, he said : 
"I'm killed. Sire!" And his chief beside. 

Smiling the boy fell dead. 



^Flag-bird: The Napoleonic standard was a tricolor powdered witn 
golden bees, with an eagle on the central strii)e. 
* Tans : Wings. 



THE PATRIOT 
Robert Browning 

This story teaches artistically the fickleness of human applause. The 
speaker, a year before, had received a triumph from his countrymen for 
military success. Encouraged by this he "leaped at the sun," that is, he 
lead his army against a more powerful enemy and met with a year of 
defeats. For this "year's misdeeds' the very people who had honored 
him with a triumph now gather for his execution. On the way to the 
scaffold he wi.sely reasons that true glory is from God and not man. 
" Tis God sliall repay: 1 am safer so." 



NARRATIVE POEMS 
I 

It was roses, roses, all the way, 

With myrtle mixed in my path like mad: 
The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway, 

The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, 
A year ago on this very day. 

II 
The air broke into a mist with bells. 

The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. 
Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels— 

But give me your sun from yonder skies!'' 
They had answered, "And afterward, what elsef 

III 
Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun 

To give it my loving friends to keep! 
Naught man could do, have I left undone: 

And you see my harvest, what I reap 
This very day, now a year is run. 

IV 

There's nobody on the house-tops now — 
Just a palsied few at the windows set; 

For the best of the sight is, all allow. 
At the Shambles' Gate — or, better yet. 

By the very scaffold's foot, I trow. 

V 
I go in the rain, and, more than needs, 

A rope cuts both my wrists behind; 
And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, 

For they fling, whoever has a mind. 
Stones at me for mv vear's misdeeds. 



VI 

Thus I entered, and thus I go! 

In triumphs, people have dropped down dead. 
"Paid by the world, what dost thou owe 

Mef — God might question; now instead, 
'Tis God shall repav: I am safer so. 



11 



12 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

THE BOY AND THE ANGEL 
Robert Browning 

" 'The Boy and the Angel' is an imaginary legend -which pi-esents 
one of Mr. Browning's deepest convictions in a popular form. Theocrite 
was a poor boy, who worked diligently at his craft, and praised God as 
he did so. He dearly wished to become Pope, that he might praise Him 
better, and God granted the wish. Theocrite sickened and seemed to die. 
And he awoke to find himself a priest, and also, in due time. Pope. But 
God missed the praise, which had gone up to Him from the boy craftsman's 
cell; and the angel Gabriel came down to earth, and took Theocrite's 
former place. And God was again not satisfied; for the angelic praise 
could not replace for Him the human. 'The silencing of that one weak 
voice had stopped the chorus of creation.' So Theocrite returned to his 
old cell; and the angel Gabriel became Pope instead of him." — Orr. 

Morning, evening, noon and night, 
^'Praise God !" sang Theocrite. 

Then to his poor trade he turned, 
Whereby the daily meal was earned. 

Hard he labored, long and well; 
O'er his work the boy's curls fell. 

But ever, at each period, 

He stopped and sang, "Praise God!" 

Then back again his curls he threw. 
And cheerful turned to work anew. 

Said Blaise, the listening monk, "Well done^ 
I doubt not thou art heard, my son : 

"As well as if thy voice to-day 

Were praising God, the Pope's great way. 

"This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome 
Praises God from Peter's dome." 

Said Theocrite, "Would God that I 

Might praise Him, that great way, and die!" 

Night passed, day shone, 
And Theocrite was gone. 

With God a day endures alway, 
A thousand years are but a day. 

God said in heaven, "Nor day nor night 
Now brings the voice of my delight." 



XARRATIVE POEMS 13 

Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth, 
Spread his wings and sank to earth; 

Entered, in flesh, the empty cell, 

Lived there, and played the craftsman well; 

And morning, evening, noon and night. 
Praised God in place of Theocrite. 

And from a boy, to youth he grew; 
The man put off the stripling's hue; 

Tlie man matured and fell aw^ay 
Into the season of decay: 

And ever o'er the trade he bent, 
And ever lived on earth content. 

(He did God's will; to him, all one 
If on the earth or in the sun.) 

God said, "A praise is in mine ear; 
There is no doubt in it, no fear: 

"So sing old worlds, and so 

New worlds that from my footstool go. 

"Clearer loves sound other ways: 
I miss my little human praise." 

Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell 
The flesh disguise, remained the cell. 

'T was Easter Day: he flew to Rome, 
And paused above Saint Peter's dome. 

In the tiring-room close by 
The great outer gallery. 

With his holy vestments dight, 
Stood the new Pope, Theocrite: 

And all his past career 
Came back upon him clear. 

Since when, a boy, he plied his trade, 
Till on his life the sickness weighed; 



14 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

And in liis cell, when death drew near, 
An ang-el in a dream brought cheer: 

And rising' from the sickness drear. 
He grew a priest, and now stood here. 

To the East with praise he turned. 
And on his sight the angel burned. 

••'I bore tliee from thy craftsman's cell, 
And set thee here; I did not well. 

"Vainly I left my angel-sphere. 
Vain was thy dream of many a year. 

"Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped- 
Creation's chorus stopped ! 

"Go back and praise again 
The early way, while I remain. 

"With that weak voice of our disdain, 
Take up creation's pausing strain. 

"Back to the cell and poor employ: 
Resume the craftsman and the boy!" 

Theocrite grew old at home; 

A new Poi)e dwelt in Peter's dome. 

One vanished as the other died : 
They sought God side by side. 



LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI^ 
John Keats 

John Keats (b. 1795, London — d. 1821, Rome), one of the greatest 
of Eiiirlish lyric poets, smdied medicine. b\it, after reading Spenser's 
Faerie Qucene, was inspired to write poetry. He was deeply sensitive, and 
his health, never very good, was broken by the bitter attacks of the 
critics on Endyinion. His almost perfect sonnet On First Looking into 
Chapinrni's Homer was writun in 181.'). "Keats does not inspire or 
ennoble; he simply satisfies a taste for beauty. He is not like a trumpet, 
calling to high actions; he is like a violincello. soft, sweet, and rich." — 
M. F. Kgan. 

Leigh Hunt says that the poem was suggested by a translation by 
Chaucer of a dialogue by Alain Chartier, the court poet of Charles II of 
France. The note prefixed says that Chartier "framed this dialogue be- 
tween a gentleman and a gentlewoman, who finding no mercy at her hand 
dieth for sorrow." There is a similarity also between this poem and 



^ Lii Belle D(i,ne Sans Merci: The Beautiful Merciless Lady. 




John Keats 



NARRATIVE POEMS 15 

Pericles, where Pericles is about to stake his life to win the king's 

daughter, and Antiochus bids him take warning by the princes who have 

already lost their lives : — 

"Yon sometime famous Princes, like thyself 
Drawn by report, adventurous by desire, 
Tell thee with speechless tongues, and semblance pale 
That without covering save yon field of stars 
Here they stand martyrs, slain in Cupid's wars, 
And with dead cheeks advise thee to desist 
For going on death's net, whom none resist." 
The poem is in the style and sjjirit of the medieval romantic ballads 

and, according to some, symbolizes Keats' unhappy love for Fanny Brawne. 

''0 Avliat can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 

Alone and palely loitering? 
The sedge has wither'd from the lake, 

And no birds sing. 

"0 what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 

So haggard and so woe-begone? 
The squirrel's granary is full, 

And the harvest's done. 

"I see a lily on thy brow, 

With anguish moist and fever-dew. 
And on thy cheeks a fading rose 

Fast withereth too." 

"I met a lady in the meads, 

Full beautiful — a faery's child ; 
Her hair was long, her foot was light. 

And her eyes were wild. 

"I made a garland for her head, 

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;^ 

She look'd at me as she did love. 
And made sweet moan. 

"I set her on my pacing steed 

And nothing else saw all day long, 
For sidelong would she bend, and sing 

A faery's song. 

"She found me roots of relish sweet. 

And honey wild and manna-dew. 
And sure in language strange she said, 

'I love thee true.' 

"She took me to her elfin grot, 

And there she wept and sigh'd full sore; 



Zone : Girdle. 



16 LOY0LA BOOK OF VERSE 

And there I shut her wild, wild eyes 
With kisses four. 

And there she lulled me asleep, 

And there I dream' d — Ah ! woe betide ! 

The latest dream I ever dream'd 
On the cold hill's side. 

"I saw pale kings and princes too, 

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all : 

They cried — 'La Belle Dame sans Merci 
Hath thee in thrall!' 

"I saw their starved lips in the gloam 

With horrid warning gaped wide, 
And I awoke and found me here 

On the cold hill's side. 

"And this is why I sojourn here, 

'Alone and palely loitering, 
Though the sedge is w^ther'd from the lake, 

And no birds sing." 

THE THREE FISHERS 
Charles Kingsley 

Charlks KlN(i,sLEY (b. 1819, England — d. 1875), a clergyman of 
the chiirch of England, wro.e lectures, sermons, poetry, and novels. 
Owing to an attack upon the veracity of the Catholic priesthood, — an 
attack which evoked the crushing reply from Cardinal Newman, — his 
fame suffered temporary eclipse. Among his poems are The Ode to the 
Xnrth East Wind and The Sands of Dee. 

Three fishers went sailing away to the West — 

Away to the West as the sun went down; 
Each thought on tlie woman who loved him the best. 

And the children stood watching them out of the town; 
For men must work, and women must weep; 
And there's little to earn and many to keep, 
Though the harbor-bar be moaning. 

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower 

And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; 

They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower. 
And the night-rack^ came rolling up, ragged and brown. 

But men must work and women must weep. 



^ Night-rack : Night-clouds. 



NARRATIVE POEMS 1< 

Though storms be sudden and waters deep, 
And the harbor-bar be moaning. 

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 
In the morning gleam as the tide went down, 

And the women are weeping and wringing their hands, 
For those who will never come back to the town; 

For men must work, and women must Aveep — 

And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep — 
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. 

THE SKELETON IN ARMOR 
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (b. 1807, Portland, ]\Iaine — d. 
1882), the most popular poet of America, was educated at Bowdoin Col- 
lege and graduated with Hawthorne in the famous class of 1825. He 
studied law, taught modern languages at Bowdoin, and later became 
Professor of Belles-Lettres at Harvard College. Cardinal Wiseman says 
of him in his lecture on Home Education of the Poor; "Thei'e is no 
greater lack in English literature than that of a poet of the people — of 
one who shall be to the laboring classes of England what Goethe is to the 
peasant of Germany. He was a true philosopher who said, 'Let jne make 
the songs of a nation and I care not who makes its laws.' There is one 
writer who approaches nearer than any other to this standard ; and he 
has already gained such a hold on our hearts that it is almost unnecessary 
for me to mention his name. Our hemisphere cannot claim the honor of 
having brought him forth ; but still he belongs to us, for his works have 
become as household words wherever the English langiiage is spoken. 
And whether we are charmed by his imagery, or sootlied by his melodious 
versification, or elevated by the high moral teachings of his pure Miise, or 
follow with sympathizing hearts the wanderings of Evangeline, I am sure 
that all who hear my voice will join with me in the tribute I desire to 
pay to the genius of Longfellow." Author of Evangeline, Hiaivatlia, Court- 
ship of Miles Standish, Tales of n Wayside Inn, the Divine Tragedy, a 
translation of Dante's Divina Cmuedia, etc. 

"This ballad was suggested to me while riding on the sea-shore at 
Newport. A year or two previous a skeleton had been dug up at Fall 
River, clad in broken and corroded armor ; and the idea occurred to me 
of connecting it with the round tower at Newport .... now claimed by 
the Danes as a work of their early ancestors." — Longfelloiv's note. 

"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest! 
Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armor drest, 

Comest to daunt me ! 
Wrapt not in Eastern balms,^ 
But with thy fleshless palms 
Stretched, as if asking alms. 

Why dost thou haunt me?" 

Then, from those cavernous eyes 
Pale flashes seemed to rise. 



^Eastern balms: Spice? used by Egyptians in embalming their dead. 



18 LOYOLA BOOK OF YERSE 

As Avhen the Northern skies^ 

Gleam in December ; 
And, like the water's flow 
Under December's snow, 
Came a dull voice of woe 

From the heart's chamber. 

, ^'I was a Viking' old! 
My deeds, though manifold. 
No Skald* in song has told, 

No Saga^ taught thee! 
Take heed, that in thy verse 
Thou dost the tale rehearse. 
Else dread a dead man's curse; 
For this I sought thee. 

"Far in the Northern^ Land, 
By the wild Baltic's strand, 
I, with my childish hand, 

Tamed the gerfalcon;' 
And, with my skates fast-bound, 
Skimmed the half -frozen Sound, 
That the poor whimpering hound 

Trembled to walk on. 

"Oft to his frozen lair 
Tracked I the grisly bear. 
While from my path the hare 

Fled like a shadow; 
Oft through the forest dark 
Followed the were-wolf's^ bark. 
Until the soaring lark 

Sang from the meadow. 

"But when I older grew. 

Joining a corsair's crew. 

O'er the dark sea I flew 

With the marauders. 



^- Northern skies : Aurora Borealis, "the northern dawn." 

^Tiking: The Norse pirates who roved the sea from the 8th to me 
11th century. 

* Skald : A Scandinavian bard. 

^Saga: A Scandinavian story of heroes. 

^Northern: Scandinavia. 

'Gerfalcon: A hawk used in falconry. j- , _^ 

^Were-wolf: (man-wolf) A person who, according to medieval super- 
stition, had the power of transforming himself into a wolf and feeding on 
human flesh. 



NARRATIVE POEMS 19 

Wild was the life we led; 
Many the souls that sped, 
Many the hearts that bled, 
By our stern orders. 

"Many a wassail-bout^ 
Wore the long Winter out; 
Often our midnight shout 

Set the cocks crowing, 
As we the Berserk's^*^ tale 
Measured in cups of ale. 
Draining the oaken pail, 
Filled to o'erflowing. 

"Once as I told in glee 
Tales of the stormy sea, 
Soft eyes did gaze on me, 

Burning yet tender; 
And as the white stars shine 
On the dark Norway pine, 
On that dark heart of mine 

Fell their soft splendor. 

"I wooed the blue-eyed maid, 
Yielding, yet half afraid, 
And in the forest's shade 

Our vows were plighted. 
Under its loosened vest 
Fluttered her little breast. 
Like birds within their nest 

By the hawk frighted. 

"Bright in her father's hall 
Shields gleamed upon the wall, 
Loud sang the minstrels all, 

Chanting his glory; 
When of old Hildebrand 
I asked his daughter's hand. 
Mute did the minstrels stand 

To hear my story. 



^Wassail-bout: A drinking contest. 

^''Berserk: A Norse warrior who fought when frenzied with drink. 
"Once as I told in glee." This passage suggests Othello's tale to Des- 
demona. 



20 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

^'Wliile the brown ale he quaffed, 
Loud then the champion laughed, 
And as the wind-gusts waft 

The sea-foam brightly, 
So the loud laugh of scorn, 
Out of those lips unshorn, 
From the deep drinking-horn 

Blew the foam lightly. 

"She was a Prince's child, 

I but a Viking wild, 

And though she blushed and smiled, 

I was discarded ! 
Should not the dove so white 
Follow the sea-mew's^ ^ flight. 
Why did they leave that night 

Her nest unguarded? 

"Scarce had I put to sea. 
Bearing the maid with me. 
Fairest of all was she 

Among the Norsemen! 
When on the white sea-strand, 
Waving his armed hand, 
Saw we old Hildebrand, 

With twenty horsemen. 

"Then launched they to the blast 
Bent like a reed each mast, 
Yet we were gaining fast, 

When the wind failed us; 
And with a sudden flaw 
Came round the gusty Skaw,^- 
So that our foe we saw 

Laugh as he hailed us. 

"And as to catch the gale 
Round veered the flapping sail, 
Death! was the helmsman's hail 

Death without quarter! 
iVIid-ships with iron keel 



" Sea-mew : A species of sea-gull. 

^- Skatv : The poetical name for Cape Skagen, situated at the north- 
eastern extremity of Denmark. 



NARRATIVE POEMS 21 

Struck we her ribs of steel; 
Down her black hulk did reel 
Through the black water! 

"As with his wings aslant, 
Sails the fierce cormorant,^^ 
Seeking some rocky haunt, 

With his prey laden. 
So toward the open main, 
Beating to sea again, 
Through the wild hurricane. 

Bore I the maiden. 



"Three weeks we westward bore, 
And when the storm was o'er, 
Cloud-like we saw the shore 

Stretching to leeward; 
There for my lady's bower 
Built I the lofty tower,!* 
Which, to this very hour. 

Stands looking seaward. 

"There lived we many years; 
Time dried the maiden's tears; 
She had forgot her fears. 

She was a mother; 
Death closed her mild blue eyes. 
Under that tower she lies; 
Ne'er shall the sun arise 

On such another! 

"Still grew my bosom then, 
Still as a stagnant fen! 
Hateful to me were men, 

The sunlight hateful. 
In the vast forest here, 
Clad in my warlike gear, 
Fell I upon my spear, 

0, death was grateful ! 



^^ Cormorant : A sea-raven -whose gluttony is proverbial. 
"Lofty Touer: See introductory paragraph. 



22 LOYOLA BOOK OF ^'ERSE 

^'Tliiis, seamed Avitli many scars 
Bursting these prison bars, 
Up to its native stars 
My soul ascended! 
There from the flowing bowl 
Deep drinks the warrior's soul, 
Skoain^ to the Northland! skoal!" 
— Thus the tale ended. 



'^•' Skoal: Hail! A salutation used in Scandinavia when drinkinfr a 
health. 



ABOU BEN ADHEM 
Leigh Hunt 

James Henrv Leigh Hint (b. 1784, Middlesex, England — d. 1859, 
England), poet, essayist, critic, and publisher, commenced authorship at 
an early age, and when he Avas sixteen his father published his verses 
under the title of Juvenilia. With his brother lie published and edited 
The Examiner, which acquired great popularity. "With acute powers of 
conception, a sparkling and lively fancy, and a quaintly-curious felicity 
of diction, the grand characteristic of Leigh Hunt's poetry is word-paint- 
ing ; and in this he is probably without a rival, save in the last and best 
productions of Keats, who contended, not vainly, with his master on that 
ground. — Moifs Sketches of the Poet. Lit. of the Past Half Century. 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
And saw within the moonlight in his room, 
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, 
An angel writing in a book of gold: 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, 
And to the presence in the room he said, 
"What writest thouf The vision raised its head. 
And. with a look made of all sweet accord, 
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." 
"And, is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," 
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, 
But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then, 
Write me as one that loves his fellowmen." 

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night 

It came again, Avith a great wakening light, 

And showed tlie names whom love of God had blessed, — 

And, lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest ! 



NARRATIVE POEMS ^o 

THE RAVEN 

Edgar Allan Poe 

Edgar Allex Poe (b. 1809, Boston — d. Baltimore, 1849) was the 
son of an actor and actress, both of whom died when Poe was a child. 
He was adopted by John Allen, a wealthy man of Richmond, Virginia, 
and educated there "at a private school and later in England, University of 
Virginia, and "West Point. His lack of stability of character led him into 
many excesses. He published Tamerlane and Other Poems when he was 
eighteen years of age and reached the height of his fame with The Raven, 
published in 1845. He was a gifted prose writer as well as poet and left 
many splendid critical essays and stories. Many consider him tlie father 
of tlie Short Story. 

This fantastic and highly imaginative poem has for its theme the 
sorrow of a lover over the death of a "beautiful young woman,'' which 
Poe said "is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world." It is 
interesting for many reasons, not the least of which is the rhyme scheme 
used. It will be noticed from this and other poems of Poe that the super- 
natural and future happiness little affected him. He seems to see only as 
far as death, the griefs and pains of this life interesting him more than 
joy to come. The subject of the poem is hopeless sorrow, and the word 
"Nevermore" expresses it Bui that word must liave a speaker. Who 
feels such sorrow more than the lover, the object of whose affection has 
been snatched from his side? What shall be the locality of his grief? It 
must be the solitude of his study. How can "Nevermore" be uttered in 
an endless monotone? Only a non-reasoning being is capable of such 
heartless reiteration. The parrot is the flippant bird of day; only the 
raven is the speaking bird of night. How shall the lover and the raven be 
brought together? There must be a tempestuous night, and the flapping of 
the raven's v/ings seems to be a knocking at the door. The opening of the 
door admits the sable visitor. The raven enters to find refuge from the 
storm, and perches upon the bust of Pallas over the chamber door. The 
lover begins by jesting at the strange apparition, and by asking questions. 
But soon he is mystified and solemnized. To all his successive inquiries 
the bird makes but one reply; it is the ominous "Nevermore." And the 
result is only the deepening of the mystery and the sorrow of death. "The 
Raven' is Poe's masterpiece, and, as uniting his melody and his melan- 
tholy, it may be regarded as one of the great works of American literature 
— a work as wonderful and as pei-fect as Gray's Elegy in a Country 
Churchyard. 

Once upon a midnig'ht dreary, while I pondered, weak and 

weary. 
Over many a quaint and curious ^•olume of forgotten lore, — 
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a 

tapping. 
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber 

door : 

Only this and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, 
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the 

floor. 
Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost 

Lenore, 



24 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name 
Lenore : 

Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; 
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood re- 
peating 
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door, 
This it is and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 
^'Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; 
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came 

rapping, 
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber 

door. 
That I scarce was sure I heard you" — here I opened wide the 

door ;— 

Darkness there and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, 

fearing, 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream 

before : 
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token. 
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 

"Lenore f 
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 

"Lenore :" 

Merely this and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me 

burning, 
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. 
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window 

lattice ; 
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore — 
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore — 

'Tis the wind and nothing more." 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, witli many a flirt and 

flutter, 
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. 



XAKKATIVE POEMS 25 

Not the least obeisance made lie; not a minute stopped or 

stayed he. 
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber 

door, 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas^ just above my chamber door: 
Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling 
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, — 
"Though tliy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art 

sure no craven,^ 
Ghastly, o-rim, and ancient Kaven wandering from the Nightly 

shore : 
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian-"^ 

shore!" 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so 

plainly, 
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore; 
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door, 
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber 

door. 

With such, name as "Nevermore." 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only 
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. 
Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he flut- 
tered. 
Till I scarcely more than nnittered, — "Other friends have 

flown before ; 
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown 
before." 

Then the bird said, "Nevermore." 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, 
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster 



^Pallas: The Greek godess, Atheua. 

* No craven : No coward, shown by the raven's bold entrance into 
an unknown place. 

3 Pluto : God of the infernal regions ; Plutonian expresses the idea 
of mysterious darkness. 



26 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden* 

bore: 
Till the dirg-es of his hope that melancholy burden bore 
Of 'Never— nevermore.' " 

But the Raven still beguiling- all my fancy into smiling, 
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust 

and door; 
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore, 
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird 

of yore 

Meant in croaking "Nevermore." 

Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core ; 
This and more I sat divining, w^ith my head at ease reclining 
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er. 
But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloating 
o'er, 

She sliall press, ah, nevermore! 



Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an 

unseen censer 
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted 

floor. 
"Wretch,"-^ I cried, "Thy God hath lent thee — by these angels 

he hath sent thee 
Respite — respite and nepenthe® from thy memories of Lenore! 
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost 

Lenore !" 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or 

devil ! 
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here 

ashore, 
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — 
On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore; 



* Burden : Refrain. 

•'Wretch: Addressing himself. 

^Nepenthe : A drug said to banish pain and sorrow 



NARRATIVE POEMS 2i 

Is there — is there bahn in Gileadf" — tell me — tell me, I im- 
plore !" 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil — prophet still, if bird or 

devil ! 
By that Heaven that bends above us, by that God we both 

adore, 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,^ 
It s'hall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore : 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name 

Lenore !" 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend !" I shrieked, 

upstarting : 
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian 

shore ! 
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath 

spoken ! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from 

off my door!" 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; 
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is 

dreaming. 
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on 

the floor: 
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the 

floor 

Shall be lifted — nevermore! 



''Is there halm in Gilea'd? A quotation from the Old Testament. 
Jeremias viii, 22. It here means, "Is there any cure for my sorrow- 
gtricken soul." 

^Aidenn: A fanciful name for Eden,— a place of happiness. 



28 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

LOCHINVAR 

Walter Scott 

Sir Walter Scott (b. 1771, Edinbiirgh — d. 1831, Abbotsford, Scot> 
land) is universally considered the greatest imaginative writer of his 
century. He was the father of the Romantic movement. His published 
poems and novels compri.se a small library. He wrote two or more novels 
a year. Among his works are The Lay of the Last Minstrel, The Lady of 
the Lake, 2I(n-)nioii, Ivaiihoc, Ecnihcorth, Quentin Diinrard, etc. Cardinal 
Newman writes of Scott: "Doubtless there are things in the poems and 
romances, of which a correct judgment is forced to disapprove; and which 
ever must ))e a matter of regret; but contrasted with tlie popular writers 
of the last century, with its novelists and some of its most admired poets, 
as Pope, they stand almost as oracles of Truth confronting the ministers 
of error and sin." "Both in poetry and prose Scott has been a tremendous 
power. The tales he wrote in fast-flying verse, teeming with life find 
activity, caught the ear of his generation, moulded their tastes unto poetry 
and prepared for the reception of the higher phases of the romanticism 
he set forth. When the star of Byron appeared, eclipsing his own bril- 
liancy, he tiirned to prose, and his historical novels captured the heart of 
the nation; the masses read; they were swept from the scenes of passing 
life to the chivalrous region of the past, charmed by the spirit and fired 
by the deeds of heroes long forgotten." — yjenkins. 

O, young' TiOcliinvar is come out of the west ! 
Through all the wide Border his steed is the best; 
And save his good broadsword lie weapons had none; 
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war. 
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. 

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone; 

He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; 

Hut ere he alighted at Netherby gate. 

The bride had consented, the gallant came late; 

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, 

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 

Among bride's-men, and kinsmen and brothers, and all. 

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, 

(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word) ; 

"0 come ye in peace here, or come ye in war. 

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" 

^'I long wooed your daughter; my suit you denied; 
Love swells like the Solway,i but ebbs like its tide; 
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine 



^ Solway : Sohvay Firth — an inlet of the Irish sea, between England 
and Scotland. It has very swift tides. 



NARRATIVE POEMS 29 

To lead })ut one measure, drink one cup of wine. 
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, 
That would g'ladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." 

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, 
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. 
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, 
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. 
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar — 
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 

That never a hall such a galliard- did grace; 

AVhile her mother did fret, and her father did fume. 

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; 

And the bride-maidens whispered, " 'Twere better by far 

To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." 

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, 

When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; 

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung. 

So light to the saddle before her he sprung! 

"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur !^ 

They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" c^uoth young Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; 

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; 

There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, 

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. 

So daring in love and so dauntless in war, 

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? 



'Galliard: An old-fashioned, spirited danre. 
^ Scaur : A bare rock standing alone. 

AFTER BLENHEIM! 
Robert Southey 

Robert Southey (b. Bristol, England — d. 1843, Keswick) M%as edu- 
cated at Westminster School and at Balliol, Oxford. His wife and Cole- 
ridge's were sisters. Besides much reviewing and historical writing and 
general literary work, he wrote some ambitious epics like Thalaba, a.nd 
The Curse ofKehama and a few memorable short poems. Roderic, a 
chronicle of the Moorish Conquest of Spain, is one of his best poems. He 
became poet laureate in 1813. 



^Blenheim: A village on the Danube near the Nebel (referred to in 
the seventh stanza), where on August 13, 1704, the Duke of Marlborougli 
and Prince Eugene of Savoy, commanding the allies (England, Holland, 
and the Empire), defeated the French in a famous battle. 



30 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

It was a summer evening, 
Old Kaspar's work was done, 

And he before his cottage door 
Was sitting in the sun ; 

And by him sported on the green 

His little grandchild AVilhelmine. 

She saw her brother Peterkin 
Roll something large and round 

Which he beside the rivulet 
In playing there had found; 

He came to ask what he had found 

That was so large and smooth and round. 

Old Kaspar took it from the boy 

Who stood expectant by; 
And tlien the old man shook his head, 

And with a natural sigh 
" 'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, 
Who fell in the great victory. 



"^\r 



"J find them in the garden, 
For there's many here about; 

And often when I go to plough 
The ploughshare turns them out. 

For many thousand men," said he, 

"Were slain in that great victory." 

"Now tell us what 'twas all about," 

Young Peterkin he cries; 
And little Wilhelmine looks up 

With wonder-waiting eyes; 
"Now tell us all about the war. 
And what the}' fought each other for." 

"It was the English," Kaspar cried, 
"Who put the French to rout; 

But what they fought each other for 
I could not well make out. 

But everybody said," quoth he, 

"That 'twas a famous victory. 

"My father lived at Blenheim then, 
Yon little stream hard by; 



NARRATIVE POEMS 31 

They burnt his dwelling to the g-round, 

And he was forced to fly: 
So wdth his wife and child he fled, 
Nor had he where to rest his head. 

"With fire and sword the country round 

Was wasted far and wide, 
And many a childing mother then 

And newborn baby died: 
But things like that, you know, must be 
At every famous victory. 

"They say it was a shocking sight 

After the field was won; 
For many thousand bodies here 

Lay rotting in the sun: 
But things like that, you know, must be 
After a famous victory. 

"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won 

And our good Prince Eugene ;"- 
"Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!" 

Said little Wilhelmine; 
"Nay — nay^ — my little girl," quoth he, 
"It was a famous victory. 

"And everybody praised the Duke 

Who this great fight did win." 
"But what good came of it at last?" 

Quoth little Peterkin : — 
"Why that I cannot tell," said he, 
"But 'twas a famous victory." 



-Prince Eugene: An able soldier and. statesman of France, >vho, 
through indignation at his treatment by France, entered the Austrian 
service. 



THE LOTOS-EATERS 
Alfred Tennyson 

Lord Alfred Tknnyson (b. 1809, Lincolnshire — d. 1892, Surrey) 
was poet-laureate of England after Wordsworth's death. Won the Newdi- 
gate Prize, 1829, by his poem Timbuctoo. Wrote his famous Jn Memoriam 
on the death of Arthur Hallem, his intimate friend. Author of Idylls of 
the King, Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington, Enoch Arden, 
Loclcsley Hall, Maud, The Princess, etc. 



o2 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

Lotos-Eaters : The Lotophagi, a legendary people living on the north 
coast of Africa who were said to live in ease and forgetfulness caused by 
eating the fruit of the lotos plant, a kind of water-lily. Ulysses, the hero 
of Homer's Odyssey, is said to have visited them in his wanderings. The 
poem was suggested to Tenjiyson by the following passage from the 
Odyssey: "But on the tenth day we set foot on the land of the lotos- 
eaters, who eat a flowery food. So we stepped ashore and drew water, 
and straightway my company took their midday meal by the swift ships. 
Now when we had tasted meat and drink I sent forth certain of my com- 
pany to go and make search what manner of naen they were who hei'e 
live upon the earth by bread, and I chose out two of my fellows, and sent 
a third with them as herald. Then straightway they went and mixed with 
the men of the lotos-eaters, and so it was that the lotos-eaters devised not 
death for our fellows, but gave them of the lotos to taste. Now whosoever 
of them did eat the honey-sweet fruit of the lotos, had no more wish to 
bring tidings nor to come back, but there he chose to abide Avith the lotos- 
eating men, ever feeding on the lotos, and forgetful of his homeward way. 
Therefore, I led them back to the ships weeping, and sore against their 
will, and dragged them beneath the benches, and bound them in the hollow 
barques." (Od. ix. Translation of Butcher and Lang.) 

It is afternoon on the seashore along the north coast of Africa. 
Tennyson makes the landscape harmonize with the languorous ease of the 
lotos-eaters. 

It begins with Spenserian stanzas — eight lines of iambic pentameter 
(heroic verse) followed by a ninth line in iambic hexameter (an Alex- 
andrine). The famous Choric Song is an irregular meter, the sound 
matching the sense. 

"Courage !" he said, and pointed toward the land, 
"Tliis mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." 
In the afternoon they came unto a land 
In which it seemed always afternoon. 
All round the coast the languid air did swoon, 
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. 
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; 
And like a downward smoke, the slender stream 
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem, 

A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, 

Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn,^ did go: 

And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke, 

Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. 

They saw the gleaming river seaward flow 

From the inner land : far off, three mountain-tops, 

Three silent pinnacles of aged snow. 

Stood sunset-flush'd : and, dew'd with showery drops, 

Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. 

The charmed sunset linger'd low adown 
In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale 
Was seen far inland, and the yellow down 
Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale 



^ Laun : Fine, thin linen fabric. Lawn was the material used in 
theatres to represent waterfall. 



NARRATIVE POEMS 33 

And meadow, set with slender galing'ale ;- 

A land where all things always seem'd the same! 

And round about the keel with faces pale, 

Dark faces pale against that rosy flame. 

The mild-eyed, melancholy Lotos-eaters came. 

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem," 

Laden Avitli flower and fruit, whereof they gave 

To each, but whoso did receive of them. 

And taste, to him the gushing of the wave 

Far, far away did seem to mourn and rave 

On alien shores ; and if his fellow spake, 

His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; 

And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake. 

And music in his ears his beating heart did make. 

They sat them down upon the yellow sand. 
Between the sun and moon* upon the shore; 
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, 
Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore 
Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar, 
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. 
Then some one said, "We will return no more;" 
And all at once they sang, "Our island home'"' 
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam." 

CHORIC SONG 

I 
There is sw^eet music here that softer falls 
Than petals from blown roses on the grass, 
Or night-dews on still waters between walls 
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; 
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, 
Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes; 

Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. 
Here are cool mosses deep, 
And thro' the moss the ivies creep. 
And in the stream the long-leaved flow^ers weep. 
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. 



•' (ralinyale : A tall, perennial, and rare sedge. 

^Branches of that enchanted stem: The lotos of Egypt, a low shrub 
with a reddish fruit about the size of an olive, tasting like the date. 

•* Bettveen the sun and moon : The moon had risen full before the 
8un had set. 

'•'Our Island Home: Ithaca, the home of Ulysses. 



34 LOYOLA BOOK OF YRRfW, 

II 
Why are we weigli'cl upon with heaviness, 
And utterly consumed with sharp distress, 
While all things else have rest from weariness? 
All thing's have rest : why should we toil alone, 
AVe only toil, who are the first of things, 
And make perpetual moan. 
Still from one sorrow to another thrown: 
Nor ever fold our wings, 
And cease from wanderings, 
Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm; 
Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings, 
"There is no joy but calm!" 
Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things' 

III 
Lol in the middle of the wood, 
The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud 
With winds upon the branch, and there 
Grows green and bioad, and takes no care, 
Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon 
Nightly dew-fed; and turning j-eliow 
Falls, and floats adown the air. 
Lol sweeten'd with the summer light. 
The full- juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, 
Drops in a silent autumn night. 
All its allotted length of days. 
The flower ripens in its place. 
Ripens and fades, and fails, and liath no toil, 
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 

IV 

Hateful is the dark-blue sky. 
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 
Death is the end of life; ah, why 
Should life all labour be? 
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast. 
And in a little while our lips are dumb. 
Let us alone. What is it that will last? 
All things are taken from us, and become 
Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. 
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have 
To war with evil? Is there any peace 



NARRATIVE POEMS 35 

In ever climbing" up tlie climbing wave? 

All things have rest, and rii)en toward the grave 

In silence; ripen, fall and cease: 

Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. 

V 

How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, 

With half-shut eyes ever to seem 

Falling asleep in a half-dream! 

To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, 

Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; 

To hear each other's whispered speech; 

Eating the Lotos day by day, 

To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, 

And tender curving lines of creamy spray; 

To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 

To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; 

To muse and brood and live again in memory, 

With those old faces of our infancy 

Heap'd over with a mound of grass, 

Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass! 

VI 

Dear is the memory of our wedded lives. 

And dear the last embraces of our wives 

And their warm tears : but all hath suffer'd change : 

For surely now our household hearths are cold: 

Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange: 

And w^e should come like ghosts to trouble joy. 

Or else the island princes over-bold 

Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sing's 

Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, 

And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. 

Is there confusion in the little isle? 

Let what is broken so remain. 

The Gods are hard to reconcile: 

'Tis hard to settle order once again. 

There is confusion worse than death, 

QVouble on trouble, pain on pain. 

Long labour unto aged breath, 

Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars 

And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stai*s.^ 

" Pi7o<-siar6': The stars according to which they steered while wan- 
dering about over the seas. 



36 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

VII 

Rut, propt on beds of amaranth^ and moly,^ 

How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing- lowly) 

With half-dropt eyelid still, 

Beneatli a heaven dark and holy, 

To watcli the long, bright river drawing- slowly 

His waters from the purple hill — 

To hear the dewy echoes calling 

From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine — 

To w^atch the emerald-colour'd water falling- 

Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine! 

Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, 

Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine. 

VIII 

The Lotos blooms below the barren jjeak: 

The Lotos blows by every winding creek : 

All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone: 

Thro* every hollow cave and alley lone, 

Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is 

blown. 
We have had enough of action, and of motion we, 
Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was 

seething- free. 
Where tlie wallowing monster spouted liis foam-fountains in 

the sea. 
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, 
In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined 
On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. 
For they lie beside their nectar,-' and the bolts are hurl'd 
Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly 

curl'd 
Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world: 
Where they smile in secret, looking over w^asted lands. 
Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and 

liery sands. 
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and 

praying hands. 
But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song- 
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, 



"'Amaranth : An imaginary flower which never faded. 
* Moly : Another fabled plant of mapic virtues. 
^Nectar: The sweet and df^licious drink of the Gods. 



NARRATIVE POEMS 37 

Like a tale of little meaning- tho' the words are strong; 
Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil. 
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, 
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil; 
Till they perish and they suffer — some, 'tis whisper'd — down 

in hell 
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys^ *^ dwell, 
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. ^^ 
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore 
Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; 
Oh rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more. 



^"Elysian valleys: Elysium was the Greek heaven, the home of the 
blessed dead. 

^^ Asphodel : The pale flower that grew in Elysium, the daffodil. 



LADY CLARE 

(A Ballad) 
Alfred Tfnxysox 

It was the time when lilies blow. 
And clouds are highest up in air, 

Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe 
To give his cousin. Lady Clare. 

I trow they did not part in scorn : 
Lovers long-betroth'd were they : 

They two will wed the morrow morn : 
God's blessing on the day! 

"He does not love me for my birth. 
Nor for my lands so broad and fair; 

He loves me for my own true w^orth. 
And that is well," said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice the nurse. 

Said, "Who was this tliat went from tlieef 
"It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, 

"Tomorrow he weds with me." 

"O God be thank'd!" said Alice the nurse, 
"That all comes round so just and fair: 

Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, 
And vou are not the Lady Clare." 



3B LOYOLA BOOK OF YP:RSE 



"Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse," 
Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so wild?" 

"As God's above," said Alice the nurse, 
"I speak the truth: you are my child. 

"The old Earl's daughter died at my breast; 

I speak the truth, as I live by bread! 
I buried her like my own sweet child, 

And put my child in her stead." 

"Falsely, falsely have ye done, 

mother," she said, "if this be true. 

To keep the best man under the sun 
So manj^ years from his due." 

"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 
"But keep the secret for your life. 

And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, 
When you are man and wife." 

"If I'm a beggar born," she said, 
"I will speak out, for I dare not lie. 

Pull off, pull oft*, the brooch of gold, 
And fling the diamond necklace by." 

"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 

"But keep the secret all ye can." 
She said, "Not so: but I will know 

If there be any faith in man." 

"Nay now, what faith?" said Alice the nurse, 
"The man will cleave unto his right." 

"And he shall have it," the lady replied, 
"Tho' I should die to-night." 

"Yet give one kiss to your mother dear ! 

Alas, my cliild, I sinn'd for thee." 
"0 mother, mother, mother," she said, 

"So strange it seems to me. 

"Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear. 

My mother dear, if this be so, 
And lay your hand upon my head, 

And bless me, mother, ere I go." 



NARRATIVE POEMS 39 

She clad herself in a russet gown, 

She was no longer Lady Clare: 
She went by dale, and she went by down, 

With a single rose in her hair. 

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought 

Leapt up from where she lay, 
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, 

And foUow'd her all the way. 

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower: 
"0 Lady Clare, you shame your worth! 

Why come you drest like a village maid, 
That are the flower of the earth f 

"If I come drest like a village maid, 

I am but as my fortunes are : 
I am a beggar born," she said, 

"And not the Lady Clare." 

"Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 

"For I am yours in word and in deed. 
Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 

"Your riddle is hard to read." 

and proudly stood she up! 

Her heart within her did not fail; 
She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, 

And told him all her nurse's tale. 

He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn: 

He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood: 

"If you are not the heiress born. 

And I," said he, "the next in blood — 

"If you are not the heiress boiii, 

And I," said he, "the lawful heir, 
We two will wed tomorrow morn, 

And you shall still be Lady Clare.'* 



40 LOYOLA BOOK OF \'ERSE 



THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE 
Charles Wolfe 

Charles Wolfe (b. 1791, Kildare, Ireland — d. 1823, Queenstown) 
was educated at Trinity College, Dublin. This famous poem was published 
in the Xeivry Telegraph 1817. Various claimants to its authorship have 
arisen, but Wolfe's right to the honor seems established. 

After the capture of Madrid by Napoleon, Sir John Moore retreated 
before Soult and Ney to Corunna, and was killed whilst covering the 
embarkation of his troops, January, 1809. 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note. 

As his corse to the rampart we hurried; 
Not a soUlier discharged his farewell shot 

O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 

The sods with our bayonets turning; 
By the straggling moonbeams' misty light 

And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast. 

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; 

l>ut he lay like a warrior taking his rest 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
Rut we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed 

And smoothed down his lonely pillow. 
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 

And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; 
But little he'll reck, if tliey let liim sleep on 

In the grave where a Briton has laid him! 

But half of our heavy task was done. 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 



NARRATIVE POEMS 41 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, 

But we left him alone with his giory. 



WE ARE SEVEN 
William Wordsworth 

William Wordsworth (b. 1770, Cumberland, England — d. 1850 at 
Rydal Mount, England) Avas educated at Cambridge and visited France 
during the Terror. His Lyrical Ballads marked the beginning of a new 
kind of poetry which aimed at extreme naturalness in diction and thought. 
In 1843, upon tlie death of Southey, Wordswox'th became poet laureate. 
His poetry attained some popularity towards the end of his life, and for 
two generations he has been regarded as one of the greatest of all the 
English poets. 

This poem was composed while Wordsworth was walking in the 
grove at Alfoxden. The little girl who is the heroine had been met by 
the poet within the area of Goodrich Castle upon his visit to the river 
Wye. The idea of the poem — the incapacity of a child to conceive of 
death — resembles his ode on Intimations of Immortality. 

A simple child 
That lightly draws its breath, 
And feels its life in every limb, 
What should it know of death? 

I met a little cottage girl : 
She was eight years old, she said; 
Her hair was thick with many a curl 
That cluster'd round her head. 

She had a rustic, woodland air. 
And she was wildly clad; 
Her eyes were fair, and very fair; 
— Her beauty made me glad. 

"Sisters and brothers, little maid, 
How many may you be?" 
"How many? Seven in all," she said, 
And wondering look'd at me. 

"And where are they? I pray you tell." 
She answer'd, "Seven are we; 
And two of us at Conway dwell. 
And two are gone to sea. 



"Two of us in the>churcliyard lie. 
My sister and my brother; 



42 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

And, in the churchyard cottage, I 
Dwell near them with my mother." 

"You say that two at Conway dwell. 
And two are gone to sea. 
Yet ye are seven! — I pray you tell, 
Sweet maid, how this may be." 

Then did the little maid reply, 
"Seven boys and girls are we; 
Two of us in the churchyard lie. 
Beneath the churchyard tree." 

"You run about, my little maid, 
Your limbs they are alive; 
If two are in the churchyard laid, 
Then ye are only five." 

"Their graves are green, they may be seen," 
The little maid replied, 

"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door. 
And they are side by side. 

"My stockings there I often knit, 
My kerchief there I hem; 
And there upon the ground I sit — 
And sing a song to them, 

"And often after sunset, sir, 
When it is light and fair, 
I take my little porringer. 
And eat my supper there. 

"The first that died was little Jane; 
In bed she moaning lay, 
Till God released her of her pain; 
And then she went away. 

"So in the churchyard she was laid; 
And when the grass was dry. 
Together round her grave we play'd. 
My brother John and I. 

"And when the ground was wljite with snow. 
And I could run and slide, 



NARRATIVE POEMS 

My brother John was forced to go, 
And he lies by her side." 

''How many are yon, then/' said I, 
"If they two are in heaven f 
Quick was the little maid's reply, 
"0 master ! we are seven." 

"But they are dead; those two are dead! 
Their spirits are in heaven!" 
'Twas throwing- words away: for still 
The little maid would have her will, 
And said, "Nay, we are seven!" 




LYRIC POEMS 



LYRIC POEMh- 47 



GULIELMUS REX 
Thomas Bailey Aldrich 

Thomas Bailev Aldrich (b. 1836, Portsmouth, N. H.--d. 1907, 
Boston, Mass.), having spent part of his childhood in Louisiana, at the 
age of seventeen went to New York and became a regular contributor to 
the Mirror and the Home Journal. After some years in literary journal- 
ism in New York he removed to Boston, where he edited Every Saturday 
and The Atlantic Monthly. His first volume of verse was The Bells. He 
also wrote Mdyjoyic Dau: and Other People, The Queen of Sheba, Mercedes, 
a drama. Friar Jerome's Beautiful Book, etc. 

The folk who lived in Shakespeare's day 
And saw that gentle figure pass 
By London Bridge, his frequent way — 
They little knew what man he was. 

The pointed beard, the courteous mien, 
The equal port to high and low, 
All this they saw or might have seen — 
But not the light behind the brow! 

The doublet's modest gray or brown, 
The slender sword-hilt's plain device. 
What sign had these for prince or clown? 
Few turned, or none, to scan him twice. 

Yet 'twas the king of England's kings! 
The rest with all their pomps and trains 
Are moulded, half-remembered things — 
'Tis he alone that lives and reigns! 



WHEN RUNNELS BEGAN TO LEAP AND SING 

Alfred Austin- 
Alfred Austin (b. 183.'i, Leeds, England — d. 1913, England), poet, 
journalist, and critic, was educated at Stonyhurst, and at St. Mary's Col- 
lege, Oscott. He took a degree at the University of London and, though 
a lawyer, devoted himself almost entirely to literature. He edited the 
National Review. He published a remarkable criticism. The Poetry of the 
Period, many essays, novels, poems, and poetic dramas. In 189G he was 
appointed Poet Laureate, succeeding Tennyson who died in 1892. 

AVhen runnels began to leap and sing, 

And daffodil sheaths to blow, 
Then out of the thicket came blue-eyed spring. 

And laughed at the melting snow. 
"It is time, old Winter, you wxnt," she said. 



48 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

And flitted across the plain, 
With an iris scarf around her head, 
And diamonded with rain. 

When the hawthorn put off her bridal veil, 

And the nightingale's nocturne died, 
Then Summer came forth with her milking-pail. 

And hunted the Spring, and cried, 
"It is time you went; you have had your share," 

And she carolled a love-song sweet. 
With eglantine ravelled about her hair. 

And butter-cup dust on her feet. 

When the pears swell juicy, the apples sweet. 

And thatched was the new-ricked hay. 
And August was bronzing the stripling wheat. 

Then summer besought to stay. 
But Autumn came from the red-roofed farm, 

And, '• 'Tis time that you went," replied, 
With an amber sheaf on her nut brown arm 

And her sickle athwart her side. 

When the farmer railed at the hireling slut. 

And fingered his fatted beeves, 
And Autumn groped for the last stray nut 

In the drift of her littered leaves, 
"It is time you went from the lifeless land," 

Bawled Winter, then whistled wierd. 
With a log for his hearth, in his chilblained hand, 

And sleet in his grizzled beard. 



THE BIRDS 

HiLAIRE BeLLOC 

HiLAiRK Belloc (b. 1870), probably the most versatile Catholic 
■writer of the present time, is a noied historian, essayist, novelist, and 
poet. He was educated at the Oratory School and Balliol College, Oxford. 
For a time he served in the French Artillery, and left the service to 
continue his studies at Oxford. Subsequently he began journalism in 
London and was quickly known as one of the most brilliant accessions to 
London letters. He has written many volumes, among which are The 
Bad Child's Book of Beasts, Dauion, Path to I?o)nr, Hills niid tlie Sea, 
On Nothing, On Everything, Marie Antoinette, The Party System (with 
Mr. Cecil Chesterton), French Revolution, General Sketch of the European 
War. 



LYRIC POEMS 49 

When Jesus Christ was four years old, 
The angels brought Him toys of gold, 
Which no man ever had bought or sold. 

And yet with these He w^ould not play. 
He made Him small fow^l out of clay, 
And blessed them till they flew avv^ay: 
Tu creasti, Domine. 

Jesus Christ, Thou child so wise, 
Bless mine hands and fill mine eyes, 
And brino: my soul to Paradise. 



OUR LORD AND OUR LADY 

HlLAIRE BeLLOC 

They warned Our Lady for the Child 

That was Our Blessed Lord, 
And She took Him into the desert wild, 

Over the camel's ford. 

And a long song She sang to him 

And a short story told: 
And She wrapped Him in a woolen cloak 

To keep Him from the cold. 

But when Our Lord was grown a man 
The Rich they dragged Him down. 

And they crucified Him in Golgotha, 
Out and beyond the Town. 

They crucified Him on Calvary, 

Upon an April day; 
And because He had been her little Son 

She followed Him all the way. 

Our Lady stood beside the Cross, 

A little space apart. 
And when She heard Our Lord cry out 

A sword went through Her Heart. 

They laid Our Lord in a marble tomb. 

Dead, in a winding sheet. 
But Our Lady stands above the world 

With the White Moon at Her feet. 



50 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 



THE LAMB 

William Blake 

William Blake (b. 1757, London — d. 1827), the son of poor parents, 
early evinced a strong love of paintings and spent many hours in the art 
shops. He developed without systematic study great ability for engraving 
and water-colors and exhibited yearly in the Royal Academy. When he 
was about twenty his intercourse with artists led him to acquaintance with 
literary men before whom he recited and sang some of his poetry. Pub- 
lished Political Sketches, Songs of Innocence, and Songs of Experience. 
As he grew old liis poetic powers waned and his artistic power increased. 
His last publication was The Book of Job, a series of paintings full of 
grandeur ajid nobility. 

Little Iamb, who made thee? 
Dost thou know who made thee, 
Gave thee life and bade thee feed 
By the stream and o'er the mead; 
Gave thee clothing of delight. 
Softest clothing, woolly, bright; 
Gave thee such a tender voice, 
Making all the vales rejoice? 

Little lamb, who made thee? 

Dost thou know who made thee? 

Little lamb, Til tell thee; 
Little lamb, I'll tell thee. 
He is called by thy name, 
For He calls himself a Lamb; 
He is meek and He is mild^,^ 
He became a little child. 
I a child and Ihuu a iamb. 
We are called by His name. 

Little lamb, God bless thee! 

Little lamb, God bless thee! 



THE TIGER 

AViLLiAM Blake 
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright 
In the forests of the night, 
What immortal hand or eye 
Could fratne thy fearful symmetry 

In what distant deeps and skies 
Burnt the tire of thine eves? 



LYRIC POEMS 51 

On what wings dare be aspire? 
What the hand dare seize the fire? 

And. what shoulder, and what art, 
Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 
And when thy heart began to beat, 
What dread hand? and what dread feet? 

What the hammer? what the chain? 
In what furnace was thy brain? 
What the anvil? what dread grasp 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp? 

When the stars threw^ down their spears, 
And watered heaven with their tears, 
Did he smile his work to see? 
Did he who made the Lamb make thee? 

Tiger ! Tiger ! burning bright 
In the forests of the night, 
What immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 



WHAT NO MAN KNOWETRi 

Hugh Francis Blunt 

Rev. Hugh Francis Blitnt (b. 1877, Medway, Mass.) was educated 
at Boston College, St. Laurent College, Montreal, and St. John's Seminary, 
Boston. He is known as an essayist, poet, and writer of short stories. 

When I am lying cold and dead, 
With waxen tapers at my head. 
The night before my Mass is said; 

And friends that never saw my soul 

Sit by my catafakiue to dole. 

And all my life's good deeds unroll; 

Jesu, Jesu, will it be 

That Thou wilt turn away from me? 



^ From Poems, published by The Devin-Adair Company. Reprinted by 
permission of publishers. 



o2 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

THE KING'S HIGHWAY 

Hugh Francis Blunt 
I saw her walking through the field, 

God's Mother with her Son, 
And every little flower-bell pealed 

To praise the Holy One. 

And every lily lifted up 

To see the wondrous thing, 

As bearers of a dew-filled eup 
Before the little King, 

Oh, every little rose upturned 
To wave as He did pass, 

And everj^ little sunbeam burned 
Its incense on the grass! 

Oh, every little piping bird 
Did trumpet from the tree, 

And every little lambkin heard, 
And danced, God's Lamb to see! 

Oh, Nature all did serenade 
God's Mother and lier Son ; 

And then I knew why God had made 
His creatures — every one! 



LIGHT 
Francis W. Bourdillon 

Frances William Bocrdillon (b. 185'J) v.as educated at Worcester 
College, Oxford, and for three years (1876-1879) he was resident tutor 
to the sons of Their R. H.'s Prince and Princess Christian, and for some 
years took private pupils for the universities. He published Among the 
Floi'prs and Other Poems, Sursnin Cordu, Through the Gnteivay, etc. He 
is !it ])res('nt. living at Sussex, England. 

The night has a thousand ej^es, • 

And the da\^ but one; 
Yet the light of the bright world dies 

With the dying sun. 

The mind has a thousand eyes, 

And the heart but one; 
Yet the light of a w^hole life dies 

When love is done. 



LYRIC POEMS 53 

A CHRISTMAS SONG^ 
Teresa Brayton 

Teresa Brayton was born near Maynooth, Ireland, in the early 
seventies and came to America in 1896, where she has since lived. Has 
written many short stories and published one volume of poetry. Songs of 
the Dawn (Kenedy, New York). 

O Lord, as You lay so soft and white, 

A Babe in the manger stall. 
With the big star flashing across the night. 

Did you know and pity us all? 
Did the wee hands, close as a rosebud curled, 

With the call of their mission ache. 
To be out and saving a weary world 

For Your merciful Father's sake? 

Did You hear the cries of the groping ))lind, 

The woe of the leper's prayer, 
The surging sorrow of all mankind. 

As You lay by Your Mother there? 
Beyond the shepherds, low bending down. 

The long, long road did You see 
That led from peaceful Bethlehem town 

To the summit of Calvary? 

The world grown weary of wasting strife, 

Had called for the Christ to rise; 
For sin had poisoned the springs of life 

And only the dead were wise. 
But, wrapped in a dream of scornful pride, 

Too high were its eyes to see 
A Child, foredoomed to be crucified. 

On a peasant Mother's knee. 

But, while the heavens with glad acclaim 

Sang out the tale of Your birth, 
A mystic echo of comfort came. 

To the desolate soul of earth. 
For the thrill of a slowly turning tide 

Was felt in that grey daybreak, 
As if God, the Father, had sanctified 

All sorrow for One Man's sake. 



^ From Songs of the Daivn (Kenedy, New York). Rein'inted by per- 
mission of the author. 



54 LOYOLxV BOOK OF YERSE 

Child of the Promise! Lord of Love! 

Master of all the earth ! 
While the angels are singing their songs above, 

We bring our gifts to Your birth. 
Just the blind man's cry, and the lame man's pace, 

And the leper's pitiful call: 
On these, over infinite fields of space, 

Look down, for You know them all. 



HO:\[E-THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD 
Robert Browxing 

"An Englishman sojourning abroad recalls the beauty of an English 
spring. Appreciation is heightened by contrast; and the buttercup — 
England's gift to her little children — is pronounced far brighter than the 
'gaudy melon-flower' which the exiled Englishman has at this moment 
before him." — Orr. 

Oh, to be in England 

Now that April's there. 

And whoever wakes in England 

Sees, some morning, unaware. 

That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf 

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, 

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough ^ 

In England — now! 



II 

And after April, when May follows. 

And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! 

Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge 

Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 

Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's edge — 

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, 

Lest you should think he never could recapture 

The first fine careless rapture! 

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, 

All will be gay when noontide wakes anew 

The buttercups, the little children's dower 

• — Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! 



LYRIC POEMS 55 



RABBI BEN EZRA 



Robert Broayning 

This poem is a sermon given by Old Age to Youth. Old Age is 
personified in the person of Rabbi Ben Ezra, an eminent Jewish philosopher 
of the Middle Ages (1090-1168). He was a distinguished astronomer, 
physician, mathematician, and poet as Avell as a philosopher. The ideas 
which Browning has him express in the poem are said to be taken from 
the Rabbi's own writings, which fact shows the erudition and range of 
information the poet possessed. The poem is monologue in form, as 
niiiny of Browning's poems are. and gives a general philosophical and 
religious scheme of life. It contains somewhat the idea expressed in a 
more simple way in Longfellows Psaliu of Life. Since the reasoning is 
at times very close and the expression involved it might be well for the 
student to write out a paraphrase of the more difficult passages. 

Old age, according to the philosopher, is the climax of life, "for which 
the first was made." Life succeeds even in its most dismal failures. 
Though we fail in our aspirations, there is comfort in the faihire. Doubts, 
disappointments, rebuffs, — are w^elcomed as God's means of purifying the 
soul, and making it less unlike to and less unworthy of Himself. At 
least we aimed high while, being animals, we might have fallen into dis- 
graceful depths. Unlike the brute, we do not always gain most Avhere we 
strive hardest. Old age is the high vantage ground from which we may 
view our life and judge of its mistakes. Not alone upon life's external 
work does old age pass sentence, but on each desire, purpose, thought, 
aspiration, of which the world kneAv nothing. Our failure or success, 
therefore, must be measured by our unseen life, — not by what we actuaDy 
have done, but by what we aspired to do. 

It is false to say everything changes. Time changes, — for it is the 
Potter's wheel that revolves, but God, the Potter, and the soul, the clay 
pitcher moulded by the Potter, endure. So, he concludes, may Ood 
amend what errors and faults are in the soul, "perfect the cup" and use 
it as He wills, so that Old Age may approve Youth, and "death complete 
the same." 

I 

Grow old along with me! 

The best is yet to be, 

The last of life, for which the first was inade : 

Our times are in His Hand 

Who saith "A whole I planned, 

Youth shows but half; trust God, see all, nor be afraid!" 

II 
Not that, amassing flowers,^ 
Youth sighed, "Which rose make ours. 
Which lily leave and then as best recall?" 
Not that, admiring stars. 
It yearned "Nor Jove, nor Mars; 

Mine be some figured - flame which blends, transcends thoni 
all!" 

^ Not that, amassing floicers : The inversion here makes the sense 
difficult. Read thus: I do not remonstrate that youth, amassing flowers, 
sighed "Which rose make ours, which lily leave and then as best recall," 
nor that it (youth), admiring stars, yearned, "Nor Jove nor Mars; Mine 
be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all I" etc. 

^Figured: Imagined. 



50) LOYOLA BOOK OF ^^ERSE 

III 

Not for sueli hopes and fears 

Annulling youth's brief years, 

Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! 

Rather I prize the doubt 

Low kinds exist without, 

Finislied and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. 

';'■',' IV 

Poor vaunt of life indeed. 
Were man but formed to feed 
On joy, to solely seek and find and feast; 
Such feasting ended, then 
As sure an end to men; 

Irks care the crop-full bird?^ Frets doubt the maw-crammed 
beast? 

V 

Rejoice we are allied 

To That which doth provide 

And not partake, effect and not receive! 

A spark disturbs our clod; 

Nearer we hold of God 

Who gives, than of his tribes that take, I must believe. 

VI 

Tlien, welcome each rebuff 

That turns earth's smoothness rough, 

Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go! 

Be our joys three-parts pain! 

Strive, and hold cheap the strain; 

Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe! 

VII 

For thence, — a paradox 

Which comforts while it mocks, — 

Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: 

What I aspired to be, 

And was not, comforts me: 

A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. 



' Irks care : Care is subject of ii-ks, doubt the subject of frets. 
"Does care irk the crop-full bird, or care fret the maw-crammed beast?" 



LYRIC POEMS 57 

VIII 

What is he but a brute 

Whose flesh has soul to suit, 

Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? 

To man, propose this test — 

Thy body at its best. 

How far can that project thy soul on its lone way? 

IX 

Yet g-ifts^ should prove their use : 

I own the Past profuse 

Of power each side, perfection every turn: 

Eyes, ears took in their dole, 

Brain treasured up the whole; 

Should not the heart beat once^ "How good to live and learn" ? 

X 

Not once^ beat "Praise be thine! 

I see the whole design, 

I, who saw power, see now love perfect too: 

Perfect I call thy plan: 

Thanks that I was a man! 

Maker, remake, complete," — I trust what thou shalt do !" 

XI 

For pleasant is this flesh; 

Our soul, in its rose-mesh 

Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest :^ 

Would we some prize might hold^ 

To match those manifold 

Possessions of the brute, — gain most, as we did best! 

XII 

Let us not always say, 

"Spite of this flesh to-day 

I strove, made head, gained ground upon the w^hole !" 



* Gifts: Bodily gifts. 

^ Once : In youth when we acquire knowledge of the external world. 

" Once : In old age. 

''Maker, remake, complete: Correct mistakes, strengthen the spiritual 
side of nature, for the attractions of the senses and the temptations of the 
flesh are great. 

^ Rest : From the struggle between good and evil. 

^ Would we some prize, etc. : Would we had some prize held out to 
us to reward us for our spiritual struggles, that we might get the best 
r«turns for living right. There is such a prize as we know, — heaven and 
the possession of God. 



58 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

As the bird wings and sings, 
Let us cry,^° "All good things 

Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps 
soul!" 

XIII 

Therefore I summon age 
To grant youth's heritage,^ ^ 
Life's struggle having so far reached its tenn : 
Thence shall I pass,^^ approved 
A man, for aye removed 
From the developed brute; a god though in the germ. 

XIV 

And I shall thereupon^^ 

Take rest, ere I be gone 

Once more on my adventure brave and new: 

Fearless and unperplexed, 

AVhen I wage battle next. 

What weapons to select, what armor to indue.^* 

XV 

Youth ended, I shall try 

My gain or loss thereby; 

Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold. 

And I shall weigh the same. 

Give life its praise or blame: 

Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old. 

XVI 

For, note when evening shuts, 

A certain moment cuts 

The deed oif, calls the glory from the gray: 

A whisper from the west 

Shoots — "And this to the rest. 

Take it and try its worth : here dies another day." 



'^" Let us cry: In our old age Avhen the spiritual side of our nature 
is stronger than the physical. 

^1 To grant youth's heritage : All that he has earned by youthful 
struggles. 

^-Thence shall I pass: From the beginning of old age. 

^^ And I shall thereupon: I shall take rest in old age, before my 
time to die. 

^* Indue : To put on, from the Latin, indno. 



LYKIC POEMS 59 

XVH 

So, still Avithin this life, 

Though lifted o'er its strife, 

Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, 

"This rage was right i' the main, 

That acquiescence vain: 

The Future I may face now I have proved the Past." 

XVIII 

For more is not reserved 

To man with soul just nerved 

To act to-morrow what he learns to-day: 

Here, work enough to watch 

The Master work, and catch 

Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play. 

XIX 

As it w^as better, youth 

Should strive, through acts uncouth. 

Toward making, than repose on aught found made: 

So, better, age, exempt 

From strife, should know, than tempt 

Further. Thou waitedst age : w^ait death nor be afraid ! 

XX 

Enough now, if the Right 

And Good and Infinite 

Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own. 

With knowledge absolute. 

Subject to no dispute 

From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone. 

XXI 

Be there, for once and all. 

Severed great minds from small, 

Announced to each his station in the Past! 

Was I, the world arraigned,^" 

Were they, my soul disdained, 

Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last! 

XXII 

Now, who shall arbitrate? 
Ten men love what I hate. 



'^° Was I: Was I whom the world arraigned, were they whom ray 
soul disdained, right? 



60 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

Shun what I follow, slight what I receive; 

Ten, who iu ears and eyes 

Match me: we all surmise, 

They, this thing, and I, that : whom shall my soul believe ." 

XXIII 

Not on the vulgar mass 

Called "work," must sentence pass. 

Things done, that took the eye and had the price; 

O'er which, from level stand. 

The low world laid its hand. 

Found straiglitway to its mind, could value in a trice; 

XXIV 

But all, the w^orld's coarse thumb 

And finger failed to plumb, 

So passed in making up the main account; 

All instincts immature. 

All purposes unsure. 

That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount : 

XXV 

Thoughts hardly to be packed 

Into a narrow act, 

Fancies that broke through language and escaped; 

All I could never be. 

All, men ignored in me, 

This I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped. ^^ 

XXVI 

Ay, note that Potter's wheel. 

That metaphor! and feel 

Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay, — 

Thou, to whom fools propound, 

When the wine makes its round, 

"Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day!'' 



^^ Whose wheel the pitcher shaped: A figure taken from the Old 
Testament. "And now, O Lord, thou art our father, and we are clay, and 
thou art our maker; and we are all the works of thy hands." Isaias, 
LXIV, 8. From here to the end the poet retains the figure, — God. the 
potter, time, the potter's wheel, and man, the pitcher shaped by the potter. 



LYRIC POEMS 61 

XXVII 

Fool! All that is, at all, 

Lasts ever, past recall; 

Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure: 

What entered into thee. 

That was, is, and shall be: 

Time's wheel runs back or stops : Potter and clay endure. 

XXVIII 

He fixed thee 'mid this dance 

Of plastic circumstance, 

This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest : 

Machinery just meant 

To give thy soul its bent. 

Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed. 

XXIX 

What though the earlier grooves 

Which ran the laughing loves^''' 

Around thy base, no longer pause and press? 

What though about thy rim, 

Scull-things^* in order grim 

Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress? 

XXX 

Look not thou down but up ! 
To uses of a cup, 

The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal, 
The new wine's foaming flow. 
The. Master's lips a-giow! 

Thou, lieaven's consummate cup, what needst thou with earth's 
wheel? 

XXXI 

But I need, now as then, 

Thee, God, who mouldest men; 

And since, not even while the whirl was worst, 

Did I — to the wheel of life 

With shapes and colors rife. 

Bound dizzily, — mistake my end, to slake thj^ thirst: 



'^' Lnuf/hiiiff loves: Cupids. In youth. 
^^Skull-things: In old age. 



62 LOYOLA BOOK OF \'ERSE 

XXXII 

So, take and use thy work! 

Amend what flaws may lurk, 

What strain o' the stuff, what warping-s past the aim! 

My times be in thy hand! 

Perfect the cup as planned! 

Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same! 



THANATOPSIS 
William Cullen Bryant 

William Cullex Bkyant (b. 1794, Cummington, Mass. — d. 1878) 
■was a precocious child and wrote poetry at the age of nine. After 
practising law for ten years, he abandoned it to edit the Neiv York 
Review. He managed the Eveving Post, a daily paper, until his death. 
He is one of our characteristic American poets in subject, imagery, and 
spirit. Says Washington Irving, "Bryant's writings transport us into the 
depths of the solemn primeval forest, to the shores of the lonely lake, the 
banks of the wild, nameless stream, or the brow of the rocky upland, 
rising like a promontory from amidst a wide ocean of foliage ; while they 
shed around lis the glories of a climate fierce in its extremes, but splendid 
in all its vicissitudes." He has made one of the best translations of the 
Iliad in our language. 

Thanatopsis (from the Greek thanatos, death, and apsis, a vision, — a 
vision of death) was written by Bryant when he was eighteen years old 
and laid aside and forgotten. His father found it and gave it to some 
critics who pronounced the author the first poet of the land. Stoddard 
called it "the greatest poem ever written by so young a man." Besides 
the sublimity of the thought, the expression is well nigh faultless. 

To him who in the love of Nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language; for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 
Into his darker musings, with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall. 
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
Make thee to shudder, and gpow sick at heart; — 
Go forth, under the open skj'', and list 
To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air-- 
Comes a still voice — 



LYRIC POEMS 63 

Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, 
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again. 
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
To mix forever with the elements. 
To be a brother to the insensible rock 
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone — nor couldst thou wish 
Couch more raagnifieent. Thou shalt lie dow^n 
With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, 
The powerful of the earth — the \vise, the good, 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past. 
All in one mighty sepulchre. — The hills 
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between; 
The venerable woods — rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
That make the meadows green; and, poured round aU, 
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 
Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven. 
Are shining on the sad abodes of death. 
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings 
Of morning — and the Barcan desert^ pierce, 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon,- and hears no sound, 
Save his own dashings — yet — the dead are there; 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 



^ Barcan desert : Barca is a country in northern Africa, bordering 
the Libyan desert. 

-Oregon: Another name for the Columbia river. The region about 
the river at the time the poem was written was a wilderness. 



64 LOYOLA BOOK OF YERSE 

The flight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. 
So shalt thou rest — and what if thou withdraw 
Unheeded by the living — and no friend 
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
Plod on, and each one as before will chase 
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 
And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
Of ages glides away, the sons of men, 
•The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes 
In the full strength of years, matron and maid. 
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man — 
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, 
By those who in their turn shall follow them. 

So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan, which moves 
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death. 
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night. 
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his coucli 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 



TO A. WATERFOWL 

William Cullen Bryant 

This poem, a sermon on trust in the protection of divine Provi- 
dence, was suggested to the poet by tlie flight of a wild duck which 
he saw while on his way to Plainfield, where he was to begin his practice 
of law. Bryant's biographer thus speaks of the incident: "He says in 
a letter that" he felt, as he walked up the hills, very forlorn and desolate 
indeed, not knowing what was to become of him in the big world, which 
grew bigger as he ascended, and yet darker with the coming on of night. 
The sun had already set, leaving behind it one of those brilliant seas of 
chrysolite and opal which often flood the New England skies; and, while 
he "was looking upon the rosy splendor with wrapt admiration, a solitary 
bird made wing along the illuminated horizon. He watched the lone 
wanderer until it was lost in the dist»nce, asking himself whither it had 
come and to what far home it was flying. When he went to the house 
where he was to stop for the night, his mind was still full of what he 
had seen and felt, and he wrote those lines, as imperishable as our lan- 
guage, The Waierfotrl." Bryant was t\venty--seven Mhen he wrote the 
poem. 



LYRIC POEMS 65 

Whither, midst falling dew, 
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 

Thy solitary way? 

Vainly the fowler's eye 
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 

Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide. 
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 

On the chafed ocean-side? 

There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast — 
The desert and illimitable air — 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fanned, 
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere. 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 

Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end; 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest. 
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, 

Soon, o'er thy 'sheltered nest. 

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart 
Deeply has sunk the lesson thou hast given, 

And shall not soon depart. 

He who, from zone to zone, 
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
In the long way that I must tread alone, 

Will lead my steps aright. 



66 LOYOLA BOOK OF X'ERSE 



THE ISLES OF GREECE 
Lord Byron 

George Gordox, Lord Byrox, was born in London, 1788, and died 
of fever, fighting for the independence of Greece, 1824. No modern Eng- 
lish poet has achieved so world-wide fame in so short a time. In spite of 
the immorality wiiich api)ears in his works, he showed at times an earnest 
desire for liigher things. After travelling for some time he returned to 
England, published the first two cantos of Childe Harold and "awoke to 
find himself famous." Author of Don Juan, Hours of Idleness, Seige of 
Corinth, Manfred, etc. 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! 

Where burning Sappho^ loved and sung, 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 

Where Delos- rose and Phoebus^ sprung! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
But all, except their sun, is set. 

The Scian* and the Teian^ muse. 

The hero's harp, the lover's lute. 
Have found the fame your shores refuse: 

Their place of birth alone is mute 
To sounds which echo further west 
Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest." 

The mountains look on Marathon,^ — 

And Marathon looks on the sea; 
And musing there an hour alone, 

I dreamOsd that Greece might still be free; 
For standing on the Persian's gTave, 
I could not deem myself a slave. 

A king sat on the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-bom Salamis:'' 



'^Sappho: A Greek lyric poetess of the island of Lesbos (now 
Milytene), Aegean sea, in the seventh century B. C. She is called the 
tenth muse. 

2 Delos : One of the group of islands called the Cyclades ; reputed 
birthplace of Apollo and Artemis. 

^ Phoehus : The sun-god, — another name for Apollo. 

* The Scian muse : Scio, an island in the Aegean sea, known in 
ancient times as Chios, was a center of art and literature, and has been 
claimed as the birthplace of Homer. 

^ The Teian muse : A name given to Anacreon, the poet, from his 
birthplace in Teos, Asia Minor. 

' Marathon : A plain in Attica, Greece, where the Greeks defeated 
the Persians in a decisive battle, 490 B. C. 

'' Salamis : An island off the coast of Attica, Greece, where the 
Greeks defeated the Persians in a naval battle, 480 B. C. Xerxts, the 
Persian king, had a high throne erected on the shore where he sat in great 
pomp to watch the battle. 



LYRIC POEMS 67 

And ships, by thousands, lay below, 

And men in nations; — all were his! 
He counted them at break of day — 
And when the sun set, where were they? 

And where are they? and where art thou, 
My country? On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now — 

The heroic bosom beats no more! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine, 

Degenerate into hands like mine? 

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame. 

Though linked among a fettered race, 

To feel at least a patriot's shame. 
Even as I sing, suffuse my face; 

For what is left the poet here? 

For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 

Must we but weep o'er days more blest? 

Must we but blush? — Our fathers bled. 
Earth! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead! 
Of the three hundred grant but three, 
To make a new Thermopylae!^ 

What, silent still? and silent all? 

Ah! no; — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 

And answer, "Let one living head, 
But one, arise, — we come, we come!" 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

In vain — in vain; strike other chords; 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine!^ 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine!^*^ 
Hark! rising to the ignoble call — 
How answers each bold Bacchanal! 



8 Thermopylae : A narrow mountain pass from Thessaly into Greece, 
which Leonidas and three hundred Spartans held against the entire Persian 
army until they were treacherously betrayed into the hands of the enemy. 

' Samian wine : Samos, one of the islands in the Aegean sea, is 
famous for its wine. 

^0 Scio's vine : Scio has been noted in ancient and modern times for 
its wine and fruit. 



68 LOYOLA BOOK OF VEKSE 

You have the Pyrrhic dance^^ as yet, 

Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx^^ gone *? 

Of two such lessons, why forget 

The nobler and the manlier one? 

You have the letters Cadmus^ ^ gave, — 

Think ye he meant them for a slave? 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

We will not think of themes like these! 
It made Anaereo^'s^* song divine : 

He serve<:l, — but served Polycrates,^^ 
A tyrant; but our masters then 
Were still, at least, our countrymen. 

The tyrant of the Chersonese^^ 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend; 
That tyrant was MiltiadesI^' 

Oh! that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

On Suli's^® rock and Parga's^^ shore. 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore; 
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 
The Heracleidan-^ blood might own. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks^^ — 
They have a king who buys and sells; 

In native swords, and native ranks. 
The only hope of courage dwells: 



" Pyrrhic dance : A martial dance in which the movements necessary 
to attack and dodge an enemy were imitated. So called from Pyrrhichus, 
the inventor. 

^'Phalanx: A compact body in battle formation. 

'^^ Cadiiiut: : The founder of Thebe.s, who brought the Phoenician 
alphabet to Greece. 

'•' Anacreon : A Greek erotic poet. 

^^ Pobfcrates : A tyrant of Sanios, crucified 522 B. C. 

'® Chersonese : A peninsula. Here Attica, in which was Athens. 

^'' Miltiades : Athenian general who defeated the Persians at Mara- 
Ibon. 

^*>»S'uh': A mountainous district in Albania, European Turkey. 

^^ Parcia's share: Piirg«, a seaport in Albania. 

^'^ Heracleidan hlood : Descendants of Heracles (Hercules). 

^^ Franks : A Germanic tribe that settled on the Rhine early in the 
Christian era. Here it refers to Europeans. 



LYRIC POEMS 60 



But Turkish force and Latin fraud 
Would break your shield, however broad. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade- 
I see their glorious black eyes shine; 

But gazing on each glowing maid, 
My own the burning tear-drop laves. 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

Place me on Sunium's^^ marble steep, 

Where nothing save the waves and I 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; 
There, swan-like, let me sing and die; 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine! 



^^ Sunium's marble steep: In ancient geography Sunium was the 
promontory at the south-eastern extremity of Attica, now known as Cape 
Colonna. It contains the ruins of a temple of Athene, a famous land- 
mark, which was built of white marble. 



APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN 

Lord Byron 
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods. 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore. 
There is society, where none intrudes, 
By the deep sea, and music in its roar : 
I love not Man the less, but Nature more. 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or liave been before. 
To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with the shore; — upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain. 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan. 
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. 



70 LOYOLA B007C OF \^RSE 

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 
The oak leviathans, ^hose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake. 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride^ or spoils of Trafalgar.^ 



Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? 
Thy waters washed them power while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou : — 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 

Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, 

Calm or convulsed^in breeze or gale, or storm. 

Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 

Dark-heaving; — boundless, endless, and sublime — 

The image of eternity — the throne 

Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime 

The monsters of the deep are rnade: each zone 

Obeys thee: thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy 
Of youthful sports w^as on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, 
For I was as it were a child of thee, 
And trusted to thy biUows far and near. 
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 



^ Armada's pride : The large fleet which Spain sent against England 
ill 1588. It was destroyed by a storm. 

- Spoils of Trafalgar : Many of the ships which Nelson captured at 
Trafalgar were destroyed by a storm soon after. 



LYRIC POEMS 71 

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY 

Lord Byron 
She walks in beauty, like the night 

Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 
And all that's best of dark and bright 

Meets in her aspect and her eyes: 
Thus mellowed t.o that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 

Had half impaired the nameless grace, 

Which waves in every raven tress. 
Or softly lightens o'er her face; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express. 

How pure, how dear their dwelling place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 
A heart whose love is innocent! 



THE EVE OF WATERLOO 
From Childe Harold's Pilgrimage 

Lord Byron 
There was a sound of revelry by night, 
And Belgium's capital had gathered then 
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; 
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell. 
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again. 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell; 
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! 

Did ye not hear if? — No; 'twas but the wind, 

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; 

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; 

No sleep till morn, when Youtli and Pleasure meet 



72 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

To chase the glowing hours with flying feet — 

But, hark! — that heavy sound breaks in once more, 

As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; , 

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! 

Arm! arm! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar! 

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro. 

And gathering tears, and trembling's of distress, 

And clieeks all pale, Avhich but an hour ago 

Blushed at the praise of their own lovliness; 

And there were sudden partings, such as press 

The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 

Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess 

If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 

Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise! 

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, 

The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 

Went pouring forward with impetuous speed. 

And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 

And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; 

And near, the beat of the alarming drum 

Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; 

While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, 

Or whispering with white lips "The foe! They come! they 



come 



And Ardennes^ waves above them her green leaves, 

Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 

Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves. 

Over the unreturning brave, — alas! 

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 

Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 

In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 

Of living valor, rolling on the foe. 

And burning witli high hope, shall moulder cold and low. 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 

La§t eve in beauty's circle proudly gay, 

The midnight brought the signal sound of strife, 



^ Ardehnes: The forest of Soiguies^. Byron says, "The wood of 
Soignies is supposed to be a remnant of the forest of Ardennes, — immortal 
in Shakespeare's .4 s You Like It. I have ventured to adopt the name coa- 
nected with nobler associations than those of mere slaughter." 



LYRIC POEMS 73 

The morn the marshalling in arms,- — the clay 

Battle's magnificently-stern array! 

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent 

The earth is covered thick with other clay, 

Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, 

Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent ! 



FOR A' THAT, AND A' THAT 
Robert Burns 

Robert Btrxs, best loved of Scotch poets, \\ as l)oni at Ayrshire, 
Scotland, 1759, and died at Dumfries, 1796. He was brought up a 
farmer, in great poverty. Besides ranking as perhaps the most passionate 
of modern lyrists and one of the best satirists, he is also distinguished aa 
a realistic painter of Scottish life. His first volume of poems, 1786, 
brought him immediate fame. Through the weakness of his character his 
last years were unhappy. 

Is there, for honest poverty, 

That^ hangs his head, and a'^- that? 
The coward-slave, we pass him by, 
We dare be poor for a' that! 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Our toils obscure^ and' a' that; 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp; 
The man's the gowd^ for a' that. 

What tho' on hamely fare we dine, 
Wear hodden-gray,- and a' that; 
Gie^ fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 
A man's a man for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, and a' that; 
The honest man, tho e'er sae poor, 
Is king o' men for a' that. 

Ye see yon birkie,'* ca'd' a lord, 

Wha^ struts, and stares, and a' that; 

Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 
He's but a coof ^ for a' that : 



"^ That : Any one who. Goivd : Gold. 

2 Hodden-gray : Coarse woolen eloth. 

^ Gie : Give. 

* Birkie : A clever fellow. 

5 Ca'd : Called. 

« Wha : Who. 

"' Coof : A blockhead, a ninny. 



74 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

For a' that, and a' that, 

His ribbon, star, and a' that. 

The man o' independent mind, 
He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that; 
But an honest man's aboon^ his might, 
Guid9 faith, he mauna^^ fa' that!" 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their dignities, and a' that. 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth. 
Are higher rank than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may, 

As come it will for a' that. 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth 
May bear the gree,^^ and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 

It's coming yet, for a' that. 
That man to man, the warld o'er, 
Shall brothers be for a' that. 



^Aboon: Above. 

» Guid : Good. 

'° Mauna : Must not. 

^Fa' that: To inherit. 

" A' : All. 

" To bear the gree : To be victor. 



MY LUVE'S LIKE A RED, RED ROSE 

Robert Burns 
my Luve's like a red, red rose 

That's newly sprung in June: 
my Luve's like the melodic 

That's sweetly plaj-'d in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I; 
And I will luve thee still, my dear. 

Till a' the seas gang dry: 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun; 



LYRIC POEMS <2> 

I will luve tliee still, my dear. 

While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, my only Luve! 

And fare thee weel awhile! 
And I will come again, my Luve, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 



TO A MOUSE 

On turning her up in her nest, with the plough, 
November, 1785 ^ 

Egbert Burns 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, 

what a panic's in thy breastie! 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle! 

1 wad be laith to rin an' chase thee 
Wi' murd'ring pattle ! 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion. 

An' fellow-mortal! 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 
What then"? poor beastie, thou maun live! 
A daimen-icker in a thrave 

'S a sma' request: 
I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave. 

An' never miss't ! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! 
Its silly >va's the win's are strewin: 
And naething, now, to big a new ane, 

0' foggage green! 
An' bleak December's winds ensuin', 

Baith snell an' keen! 



76 LOYOLA BOOK OF YERSP: 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
An' weary winter comin' fast, 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast. 

Thou thought to dwell. 
Till, crash! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble 

Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! 

Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble. 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble 

An' cranreuch cauld? 

But^ Mousie, thou art no thy lane 

In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men 

Gang aft a-gley. 
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, 

For promised joy. 

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! 
The present only toucheth thee: 
But, Och! I backward cast my e'e 

On prospects drear! 
An' forward, tho' I canna see, 

I guess an' fear! 

Glossary 
Wee : Little. 
Sleekit : Sleek, sly. 
Gow'rin' : Cowering. 
Beastie : A little beast. 
Breastie : Little breast. 
Bickering : Careering. 
Brattle : A short race, hurry. 
Wad: Would. 
Laith : Loath. 
Rin: Run. 
Pattle : A small spade. 
Na: Not. 

Whyles : Sometimes. 
Maun : Must. 

Dainien: Rare, now and then. 
Jcker: Ear of corn. 

Thrave : A set of twtnty-four sheaves. 
Lave : The rest. 
Wa'8 : Walls. 
Big: To build. 

Foggage : Dead or decaying grass. 
Baith : Both. 
Snell : Bitter. 
Coulter: A blade or disk on the beam of a plough, to cut the sod. 



LYRIC POEMS 77 



Monie ; ]Many. 

But: Without. 

Hald: An abiding place. 

Thole: Suffer. 

Dribble : Drizzling. 

(Jratireuch : Hoar-frost. 

Cauld: Cold. 

No : Not. 

Thy lane : Alone. 

Gang : Go. 

Aft : Oft. 

A-gley : Wrong, awry. 

E'e: Eye. 

Carina : Cannot. 



THE LAST MAN 
Thomas Campbell 

THOMA.S Campbell (b. Glasgow, Scotland— d. 1844), poet and prose 
writer, is styled the 'bard of Hope." In his twenty-second year he pub- 
lished The Pleasures of Hope which was received with loud acclaim. The 
passage concerning the partition of Poland is well known from the couplet 
"Hope, for a season, bade farewell. And Freedom slirieked as Kosciusko 
fell!" Author of EohenUnden, The Battle of the Baltic, Gertrude of 
Wyoming, a Pennsylvania tale. Lord VJJin's Daughter, etc. 

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, 

The sun himself must die, 
Before this mortal shall assume 

Its immortality! 
I saw a vision in my sleep, 
That gave my spirit strength to sweep 

Adown the gulf of Time! 
I saw the last of human mould, 
That shall Creation's death behold, 

As Adam saw her prime! 

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare. 

The Earth with age was wan. 
The skeletons of nations were 

Around that lonely man ! 
Some had expired in flight,^ — the brands 
Still rusted in their bony hands; 

In plague and famine some I 
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread, 
And ships were drifting with the dead 

To shores where all was dumb ! . 

Yet, ]:)rophet-like, that lone one stood, 

With dauntless words and high, 
That shook the sere leaves from the wood 



78 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

As if a storm passed by, 
Saying, "We are twins in death, proud Sun, 
Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 

'Tis Mercy bids thee go; 
For thou ten thousand thousand years 
Hast seen the tide of human tears, 

That shall no longer flow. 

"What though beneath thee man put forth 

His pomp, his pride, his skill; 
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, 

The vassals of the will? — 
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway. 
Thou dim discrowned king of day; 

For all these trophied arts 
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, 
Healed not a passion or a pang 

Entailed on human hearts. 

"Go, let oblivion's curtain fall 

Upon the stage of men. 
Nor with thy rising beams recall 

Life's tragedy again. 
Its i^iteous pageants bring not back. 
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack 

Of pain anew to writhe; 
Stretclied in disease's shapes abhorred 
Or mown in battle by the sword. 

Like grass beneath the scythe. 

"Even I am weary in yon skies 

To watch thy fading fire; 
Test of all sumless agonies, 

Behold not me expire. 
My lips that speak thy dirge of death — 
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath 

To see thou shalt not boast. 
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, — 
The majesty of darkness shall 

Receive my parting ghost! 

"This spirit shall return to Him 
Who gave its heavenly spark: 
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim 



LYRIC POEMS 79 



AVhen thou thyself art dark! 
No! it shall live again and shine 
In bliss unknown to beams of thine, 

By Him recalled to breath, 
Who captive led captivit3'', 
Who robbed the grave of Victory, — 

And took the sting from Death! 

"Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up 

On Nature's awful waste 
To drink this last and bitter cup 

Of grief that man shall taste — 
Go, tell the night that hides thy face, 
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race. 

On Earth's sepulchral clod. 
The darkening universe defy 
To quench his Immortality, 

Or shake his trust in God!" 



MEA CULPA 

Ethna Carbery 

Ethxa Carbery (d. Ireland, 1902) is the pen name- of Aama 
Johnston MacManns, the late wife of Seximas MacManus, the famo\is 
Irish author. She began and edited the Shan van Vocht, an Irish maga- 
zine dcA'oted to literary and politic-al questions. Author of Poems, etc. 

Be pitiful, my God! 

No hard-won gifts I bring — 
But empty, pleading hands 

To Thee at evening. 

Spring came, white-browed and young; 

I, too, was young with Spring. 
There was a blue, blue heaven 

Above a skylark's Aving. 

Youth is the time for joy, 

I cried, it is not meet 
To mount the heights of toil 

With child-soft feet. 

When Summer walked the land 
In Passion's red arrayed. 



80 LOYOLA BOOK OF ^•ER.SE 

Under green sweeping boughs, 
My couch I made. 

The noon-tide heat was sore, 
I slept the Summer through: 

An angel waked me — "Thou 
Hast work to do." 

I rose and saw the sheaves 
Upstanding in a row: 

The reapers sang Thy praise 
While passing to and fro. 

My hands were soft with ease; 

Long were the Autumn hours: 
I left the ripened sheaves 

For poppy-flowers. 

But lo! now Winter glooms, 
And gray is in my hair; 

Whither has flown the world 
I found so fair? 

My jDatient God, forgive! 

Praying Thy pardon sweet 
I lay a lonely heart 

Before Thy feet. 



THE DONKEYi 

Gilbert Keith Chesterton 

Gilbert Keith Chesterton (b. 1874, England), journalist, poet, 
controversialist, novelist, essayist, and historian, though not a catholic, is 
a stanch defender of the Catholic Church and Catholic doctrine. Though 
he is probably best known at the present time as an essayist, it is the 
opinion of some that his future claim to greatness will be as a poet. He 
has written many volumes among which are The Wild Knight, Grey- 
b"ards at Play, Heretics, Ortlmdo.vy, The 3Iaii Who Was Thursday, The 
J)uio<'eiire of Father Broun. Mayie (a play), Tre,iie)idotis Trijlen, and 
George Bernard Shaw. 

When flshes flew and forest walked 

And figs grew upon thorn, 
Some moment when the moon was blood 

Then surely I was born; 



From A Wild Knight, published by E. P. Ducton and Company 
Reprinted by permission. 



i:ykic poems 81 

With monstrous head and sickening cry 

And ears like errant wing"s, 
The devil's walking parody 

On all four-footed thing's. 

The tattered outlaw of the earth, 

Of ancient crooked will; 
Starve, scourge, deride me : I am dumb, 

I keep my secret still. 

Fools I For I also had my hour; 

One far fierce hour and sweet : 
There was a shout about my ears, 

And palms before my feet. 

KUBLA KHAN 

Samuel Taylor Coleridgk 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (b. 1772, Devonshire, England — d. 1834), 
was one of the Lake Poets (Coleridge, Southey, und Wordsworth , so called 
because the three of them lived at Keswick in Cumberland near the 
Lakes. He lacked concentration and steadiness of purpose and hence did 
not nvail himself of his intellettnal riclu^s. Later he became an opium 
liend and the habit exerted a baneful iiiHuence on his work. He is best 
known for his Rime of the Ancient Mariner, a wild, mystical narrative 
with strang:e, beautiful melody. He also wrote C'hrintabcl, Ode to Mount 
Blanc, Ode to France, etc. "Of Coleridge's poetry in its most matured 
form and in its be.st specimens, the most distinguishing characteristics are 
vividness of imagination and subtlety of thought, combined with beauty 
and expressiveness of diction, and exquisite melody of \'erse." — Jenlin.s. 

"In consequence of a slight indisposition an anodyne had been pre- 
scribed, from the effects of which Coleridge fell asleep in his chair at the 
moment he was reading the following sentence in Purchas's Pilgrimage; 
'Here the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be built, and a stately 
garden thereunto. And thus ten miles of fertile ground were inclosed with 
a wall.' The author continued for about three hours in a profound 
sleep, at least of the external senses, during which time he has the most 
vivid confidence that he composed not less than two or three hundred 
lines on the iniacies that rose up before hiiii in his drerini. On awakin?" 
he appeared to himself to have a distinct recollection of the whole, and, 
taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the 
lines that are here pre.served. At this moment he was unfortunately 
called out by a person on business, and detained by him above an hour, 
and on his return to his room found, to his no small surprise and morti- 
fication, that though he still retained some vague and dim recollection of 
the vision, yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines 
and images, all the rest had passed away." — Preface to the poem in 1816. 

In Xanadu^ did Kubla Khan-^ 
A stately pleasure-dome decree: 
Where Alpli, the sacred river, ran 



^Xanadu: A region in Tartary ; imaginary residence of the Khan, 
Kubla. Kubla, an Asiatic prince of the 13th century, founder of the 
Mongol dynas y in Cliina. 

' Kahn : The title of sovereign princes in Tartary. 



82 LOYOLA BOOK OP' VERSE 

Through caverns measureless to man 

Down to a sunless sea. 
So twice five miles of fertile ground 
With walls and towers were girdled round: 
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills 
Where blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree; 
And here were forests ancient as the hills, 
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted 
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! 
A savage place! as holy and enchanted 
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 
By woman wailing for her demon-lover! 
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, 
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 
A mighty fountain momently was forced: 
Amid whose swift, half -intermitted burst, 
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: 
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever. 
It flung up momently the sacred river. 
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 
Through w^ood and dale the sacred river ran. 
Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man. 
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: 
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
Ancestral voices prophesying war! 

The shadow of the dome of pleasure 

Floated midway on the waves; 

Where was heard the mingled measure 

From the fountain and the caves. 
It was a miracle of rare device, 
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! 

A damsel with a dulcimer 
In a vision once I saw: 
It was an Abyssinian maid, 
And on her dulcimer she play'd. 
Singing of Mount Abora.^ 



* Abora : Probably a variant of Amara, a hill in Abyssinia and the 
seat of a terrestrial paradise like that described in the poem. 



LYRIC POEMS 83 



Could I revive witliin me 

Her symphony and song, 
To such a deep delight 'twould win me, 
That with music loud and long, 
I would build that dome in air, 
That sunny dome! those caves of ice! 
And all who heard should see them there, 
And all should cry, Beware! Beware! 
His flashing eyes, his floating hair! 
Weave a circle round him thrice, 
And close your eyes with holy dread, 
For he on honey-dew hath fed. 
And drunk the milk of Paradise. 



ODE WRITTEN IN 1746 
William Collins 

William Collins (h. Chichester, England — d. 1756), although he 
has written but few poems and those brief ones, holds a foremost 
rank among the lyrical poets of England. His history is short and 
melancholy. After finishing his schooling at Oxford where he was noted 
for "ability and indolence" he went to London, but his poems were not 
appreciated and he died in disappointment and poverty. His odes are 
among the best in the English language. • 

This poem was a\ vitten in memory of the British soldiers who were 
killed in the War of the Axistrian Succession. In 1745, the year before the 
ode was written England suffered a great defeat from the French and 
Irish at Fontenoy, Belgium. 

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 
By all their country's wishes blest! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold. 
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould. 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung. 

By fonns unseen their dirge is sung: 

There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, 

To bless the turf that wraps their clay; 

And Freedom shall awhile repair 

To dwell, a weeping hermit, there ! 



84 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSP] 

AX OLD WOMAN OF THE ROADS^ 

Padraic Colum 

Padraic Colvm (b. 1881, Longford. Ireland), was a member of 
that group of literary men and women who created the Irish National 
Theatre, afterwards called The Abbey Theatre. He wrote three dramas, 
Broken Soil, The Land, and Thomas Muskerry, and his best collection of 
verse appears in Wild Earth. He is at present living in the United States. 

Oh, to have a little house, 

To own the hearth and stool and all — 

The heaped-up sods upon the fire, 
The pile of turf against the wall! 

To have a clock with weights and chains, 
And pendulum swinging up and down ! 

A dresser filled with shining delph, 

Speckled and Avhite and blue and brown! 

I could be busy all the day 
, Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor. 
And fixing on their shelf again 

My white and blue and speckled store. 

* I could be quiet there at night 
Beside the fire and by myself, 
Sure of a bed, and loth to leave 

The ticking clock and shining delph. 

Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark, 

And roads where there's never a house or bush. 

And tired I am of bog and road. 

And the crying wind and lonesome hush. 

And I am praying to God on high, 

And I am praying Him night and day. 

For a little house — a house of my own — 
Out of the wind's and the rain's way. 



' Reprinted by jferniission of the author. 



LYRIC POEMS 85- 

LAZARUS' TEAKS 

KiCHARD CrASHAW 
Richard Crashaw (b. 1616, London — d. 1650), the first great 
religious poet, was the son of an Anglican preacher. lie gave up pros- 
pects of wealth to enter the Catholic church. His ^\orks are fStep.s to the 
Temple, The Delights of the Muses, Sacred Poems, etc. He was fond of 
quaint conceits, epigrams, and paradoxes. This stiiving for effect some- 
limes mars the beauty of his verse. He is author of the famous line re- 
lating to the miracle of Cana: "Lympha pudica Deum vidit et crubuil." 
"The modest water saw its God and blushed." 

Rich Lazarus ! richer in those gems, thy tears, 

Than Dives in the robes he wears; 
He scorns them now, but Oh! they'll suit full well 

With the purple he must wear in hell. 



SAINT TERESA 

Richard Crashaw 
.0 thou undaunted daughter of desires! 
By all thy dower liglits and fires; 
By all the eagle in thee, all the dove; 
By all thy lives and deaths of love; 
By thy large draughts of intellectual day. 
And by thy thirsts of love more large than they; 
By all thy brim-fill'd bowls of lierce desire, 
By thy last morning's draught of liquid fire; 
By the full kingdom of that final kiss 
That seized thy parting soul, and seal'd thee His; 
By all the Heav'n thou hast in Him 
( Fair sister of the seraphim ! ) ; 
By all of Him we have in thee; 
Leave nothing of myself in me. 
Let me so read thy life, that I 
Unto all life of mine mav die! 



THE SPARROW 
James J. Daly, S. J. 

Rev. James J. Daly, S. J. (b. 1872, Chicago) was educated at 
St. Ignatius College, Chicago, and St. Louis University, St. Louis, Mo. 
He was Professor of English at St. Marj^'s College, Kansas, and St. 
Xavier's College, Cincinnati. For a time he was Assistant Eaitor of 
America, the Catholic weekly, and is at present Assistant Editor of The 
Queen's Work, a Catholic monthly published at St. Louis. Contributor to 
The Bookman, etc. 



8C LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

The sparrow has no holiday gear, 

Nor whistles a jolly stave; 
But in romance no buccaneer 

Has ever been so brave. 

He scorns your threats and stays to scoff, 

He challenges and usurps. 
Does blustering Winter scare him off? 

He tilts his head and chirps. 

He meets the North's artilleries 

As cool as Bonaparte; 
No hungry siege of frost can freeze 

The courage in his heart. 

While refugees take gentle cheer 

In lands of palm and spice, 
He drudges in the trenches here 

With wings incased in ice. 

Then when Spring starts her northern drive 
And Winter's long line reels. 

The foppish refugees arrive 
Fresh from the far Antilles.^ 

The oriole, that gay young spark; 

Tlie thrush, swift, robin, wren, 
The martin, and the meadow-lark 

Come back to us again. 

And fawning honors we must do 

Unto this dandy rout. 
This debonair, soft-fluting crew 

Must drive the sparrow out! 

The gable-angle, come what will, 
Must serve the martin's rest. 

The elm-crutch near the window-sill 
Must hold the robin's nest. 

The drooping maple-bough must sway 

For oriole's silken ease. 
Wo to the sparrow that says nay 

To our sublime decrees! 



^Antilles: The West India Islands, except the Bahamas. 



LYRIC POEMS S7 



I do not like the sparrow's dress, 

It is as dull as dirt; 
I do not like his quarrelsomeness; 

He's impudent and pert. 

But as for me, he's free to hold 
What's his by gallant fight. 

No silver song or coat of gold 
Shall blind me to his right. 



SPRING MAGIC 

James J. Daly^ S. J. 

I visited the woods in March; 

Winter had done his worst to them. 
I stood beneath a windy arch, 

Dispirited and grim. 

"These trees," I said, "will feel again 
No restless flicker's^ friendly tap, 

Nor thrill unto the tinkling rain 
With rising tides of sap." 

Then what a chorus I heard rise 
From birches, maples, elms and planes! 

"You think we're dead : trust not your eyes- 
Life quivers in our veins. 

"We're deft magicians, sir, and if 
You urge us not to be too quick, 

We'll show you, tho' we look so stiff, 
A rather clever trick. 

"We'll shake our arms thus up and down, 
To prove there's nothing in our sleeves: 

Our bark's too tight a fit, you'll own, 
To hide a stack of leaves. 

"There's not a green leaf here concealed: 
You're free to search the entire woods. 

Go, now! Return when lawn and field 
Are wet with April floods!" 

^nicker: A woodpecker. 



"SB LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

I went away; and when the skies 
With drifting veils of rain were hung 

I came again. Oh, the surprise 
The wizard-trees had sprung! 

Their outstretched arms were laden now 
With green new leaves of tender hue! 

And whence they came, or why, or how, 
I cannot tell, can you? 

"What magic, say, is it that weaves 
This miracle?" I asked each tree, 

It only shook its iiiillioii leases 
And chuckle*! uleefully. 



A SONG FOR MARCHi 
T. A. Daly 

Thomas Augustine Daly (b. 1871, Philadelphia), author, editor, 
poet, and lecturer, wms educated at Villanova College and Fordham Uni- 
versity, and spent much of his life in newspaper work. Author of 
Canzoni, C'annina, Madrigali, Macaroni Ballads, etc. 

Who sing's of March must sing the mad, 
Lone raan-at-arms, the straggler clad 

In motley white and brown — 
Who in the wake of Winter's flight 
Turns now to caper, now to fight — 

Half hector and half clown. 
One moment from a cloud-capped hill 
He blares his slogan, wild and shrill; 

The nexf, with gusty laughter, 
Outsteps the sunbeams as they dance, 
And leers, and flouts with backward glance. 

The maid who follows after. 
Oh ! sing the maid, 
The light-heart maid, 

Who follows, follows after. 

He flees her down the lengthening days; 
She follows him through woodland ways, 
O'er hills and vales between, 



* From the works of T. A. Daly, published by Harcourt, Brace, and 
Howe. Reprinted by ])ermission of the author. 



LYRIC POEMS 89 

And sets for mark of victory 

On every bush and hedge and tree 

Her flag" of tender green; 
And when her breath hath spiced the night 
With promise of the warm delight, 

Of young June's love and laughter, 
No other song may true hearts sing 
But "Speed thy passing, March, and bring 
The maid who follows after; 
The light-heart maid, 
The lily maid, 
Wlio follows, follows after." 



THE TREASURE BOX^ 

T. A. Daly 

Ah ! here's the box ! And there's his baby shoe ; 

And there his little christening robe and cap ! 
I mind that springtime Sunday long ago 

They brought him back and laid him in my lap. 

He was a stirring youngster, and his feet 
Outgrew no shoes that weren't first outworn, 

I mind that day he ran out in the street. 

And it a bare twelve months since he was born. 

'Twas flags was in it then, and fifes and drums; 

A passing band of lads that fought with Spain. 
Flags always called him so. . . . How plainly comes 

My last sight of him marching to the train! 

And here's the box, with all his baby thing's; 

And here's another treasure it must hold — 
The last flag and his own! The flag that brings 

His glory home! little star of gold! 



1 From the works of T. A. Daly, published by Harcourt,, Brace, and 
Howe. Reprinted by permission of the author. 



90 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

MAY CAROL 
Aubrey de Verb 

Aubrey De Verb (b. 1814, Limerick, Ireland — d. 1902), poet, 
essayist, and critic, was educated at Trinity College, Dublin, and later 
visited Oxford, Cambridge, and Rome, where lie came under the potent 
influence of Newman. Soon after he became a Catholic. _ He was a 
strong opponent of English misrule in Ireland. His poetry is strong and 
vigorous, musical and remarkably spiritual. Says a critic in the Quar- 
terly Review, "Next to Browning's, De Vere's poetry shows the fullest vital- 
ity, resumes the largest sphere of ideas, covers the broadest intellectual field 
since the poetry of Wordsworth." Among his works are, — May Carols 
and Legends of Saxon Saints, Mediaeval Records and Sonnets, Saint 
Peter's Chains, and Essays Literary and Ethical. 

In vain thine altars do they heap 

With blooms of violated May 
Who fail the words of Christ to keep; 

Thy Son who love not, nor obey. 

Their songs are as a serpent's hiss; 

Their praise a poniard's poisoned edge; 
Their offering taints, like Judas' kiss, 

Thy shrine; their vows are sacrilege. 

Sadly from such thy countenance turns: 
Thou canst not stretch thy Babe to such 

(Albeit for all thy pity yearns) 
As greet Him with a leper's touch. 

Who loveth thee must love thy Son. 

Weak Love grows strong thy smile beneath; 
But nothing comes from nothing; none 

Can reap Love's harvest out of Death. 



BENEDICTIO DOMINI 
Ernest Dowson 

Ernest Dowson (b. 1867, Kent, England — d. 1900) was an invalid 
and lived for the most part an unhappy liie. 

Without, the sullen noises of the street! 

The voice of London, inarticulate, 
Hoarse and blaspheming, surges in to meet 

The silent blessing of the Immaculate. 

Dark is the church, and dim the worshippers, 

Huslied with bowed heads as though by some old speU, 



1 

LYRIC POEMS 91 

While through the incense-laden air there stirs 
The admonition of a silver bell. 

Dark is the church, save where the altar stands, 
Dressed like a bride, illustrious with light 

Where one old priest exalts with tremulous hands 
The one true solace of man's fallen plight. 

Strange silence here: without, the sounding street 
Heralds the world's swift passage to the fire: 

Benediction, perfect and complete! 

When shall men cease to suffer and desire? 



AN AUTUMN ROSE-TREE 
Michael Earls, S. J. 

Rev. Michael Earls, S.J. (b. Southbridge, Mass.), was educated at 
Holy Cross and Georgetown University, and shortly after entered the 
Jesuit order. He is a popular lecturer as well as writer. Among his pub- 
lished works are Melchior of Boston, Wedding Bells of Glendalough, The 
Road Beyond the Town, and Ballads of Childhood. 

It seemed too late for roses 

When I walked abroad to-day, 
October stood in silence. 

By the hedges all the way: 
Yet did I. hear a singing, 

And I saw a red rose-tree: — 
In fields so gray with autumn 

How could song or roses be? 

Oh, it was never maple 

Nor the dogwood's coat afire, 
No sage with scarlet banners. 

Nor the poppy's vested choir: 
The breeze that may be music 

When the summer lawns are fair. 
Will have no heart for singing 

In the autumn's mournful air. 

As I went up the roadway. 

Under cold and lonely skies, 
A song I heard, a rose-tree 

Waved to me in glad surprise; — 
A red cloak and a ribbon. 



92 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

(Round the braided hair of jet) 
And redder cheeks than roses 
Of a little Margaret. 

Now God is good in Autumn, 

He can name the birds that sing. 
He loves the hearts of children 

More than flowery fields of spring; 
And when the years of winter 

Gray with Margaret will be, 
God will find her love still blossoms 

Like a red rose-tree. 



VIGIL OF THE LAL>LlcrLATE CONCEPTION^ 
Maurice Francis Egan 

Mavrice Francis Egan, educator, author, diplomat (b. 1852, Phila- 
delphia, Penn.), was educated at Notre Dame, Georgetown University, 
and Villanova. Was associate editor of Freeman's Journal, Professor of 
English Literature at Notre Dame, Dean of Faculty of Philosophy at the 
Catholic University of America, and served for many years as American 
Minister to Denmark. Author of Preludes (poems), Soiifis and Scvnets, 
Modern Novelists, The Vocation of Edward Conway, The Wiles of Sexton 
Maginnis, etc. 

A sword of silver cuts the fields asunder — 
A silver sword to-night, a lake in June — 

And plains of snow reflect the maples under 
The silver arrows of a wintry moon. 

The trees are white with moonlight and with ice-pearls; 

The trees are white, like ghosts we see in dreams; 
The air is still: there are no moaning wind-whirls; 

And one sees silence in the quivering beams. 

December night, December night, how glowing 
Thy frozen rains upon our warm hearts lie: 

Our God upon this vigil is bestowing 
A thousand graces from the silver sky. 

moon, symbol of our Lady's whiteness; 

snow, symbol of our Lady's heart; 
O night, chaste night, bejewelled with argent brightness. 

How sweet, how bright, how loving, kind thou art. 



^ Reprinted by "permission of the author. 



LYRIC POEMS 93 

miracle: to-morrow and to-morrow, 

In tender reverence shall no praise abate; 

For from all seasons shall we new jewels borrow^ 
To deck the Mother born Immaculate. 



THE YOUNG PRIEST TO HIS HANDS 
Edward F. Garesche^ S. J. 

Rev. Edward F. Garepche, S. J., (b. 1876, St. Louis, Mo.) was 
educated at St. Louis University. Editor for some years of The Queen's 
Work, published at St. Louis. Author of The Four Gates (poetry), Your 
Soul's Salvation, Your Neighbor and You, etc. 

Time was when ye were powerless, 

To shrive and sign, anoint and bless. 
Clasped, ye worshipped from afar. 
That Host, as distant as a star. 
Your palms were barren still, and cold, 
Ye might not touch, ye might not hold 
God, whom the signs of bread enfold. 

But now, ah, now, most happy hands. 
Ye fold the Savior's swaddling bands. 

Ye lift His tender limbs and keep 

The snowy bed where He doth sleep. 

His heart, His blood. His being fair, 

All God and Man is in your care! 

Ye are His guardians everyw^here. 

Ye pour the wine, ye break the bread 
For the great Supper, sweet and dread ! 
Ye dress the rood of sacrifice. 
Whereon the morning Victim lies. 
And when my trembling accent calls. 
Swift leaping from His Heaven's walls. 
On you the Light of Glory falls! 

You are the altar where I see 
The Lamb that bled on Calvary, 

As sacred as the chalice shrine. 

Wherein doth glow the Blood divine. 

As sacred as the pyx are ye. 

Oh happy hands — an angel's fee! 

That clasp the Lord of Majesty! 



94 LOYOLA BOOK OF \^RSE 

ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD^ 

Thomas Gray 

Thomas Gray (b. 1716, London — d. 1771) made his first appear- 
ance as a poet witli his Ode on a Distant Prospect oj Eton College, and 
fonr years after, he wrote liis famous Elegy, one of tlie finest jjoems in 
our language. "The natiiral and touching strain of thought, expressed 
with consummate taste, and in a charming metre, has imparted to this 
poem such a union of impressiveness and grace as to render it a master- 
piece of elegiac composition." Says Doctor Jolmson, "Had Gray written 
often thus, it had been vain to blame and useless to praise him." His. 
other works consist principally of his lyrical odes, the most popular of 
which are On Spring, To Adversity, The Progress of Poetry. Lord Byron 
has said that the corner-stone of his glory is his unrivalled Elegy; ana 
that, without it, his odes would not be sufficient for his fame. 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way. 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight. 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds: 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower. 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower. 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Keneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade. 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap. 
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid. 
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, 
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse thein from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn. 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care: 
No children run to lisp their sire's return. 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; 



1 The churchyard was in Stoke Poges, a little village twenty-three 
miles west of London. Gray was eventually buried there. 



LYRIC POEMS 95 

How jocund did they drive their team afield! 
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of poAver, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 
Await alike the inevitable hour, — 
The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor 5^ou, ye proud, impute to these the fault. 
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn or animated bust, 
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 
Can Honor's voice provoke- the silent dust, 
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 
Hands that tlie rod of empire might have swayed. 
Or waked to ecstasy the living Ij're. 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; 
Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
The dark unfatliomed caves of ocean bear: 
Full man}^ a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Ham])den,^ that with dauntless breast 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood; 
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest. 
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 



- Provoke : Arouse. 

^Hampden: John Htiiiipden (1594-164?)). an English patriot, re- 
fused to pay ship-money. 



96 LOYOLA BOOK OF ^*ERSE 

The applause of listening senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. 
And read their history in a nation's eyes. 

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide. 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.* 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray; 
Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked. 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse,^ 
The place of fame and elegy supply : 
And many a holy text around she strews. 
That teach the rustic moralist to die.^ 

For M'ho, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, 
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies; 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead. 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; 



* With incense, etc. : To write flattering poems for their wealthy 
patrons. 

'•'Unlettered M^ise : Native poets witliout education. 
^ To die : How to die. 



LYRIC POEMS 97 

If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, — 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, 
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech 
That wreaths its old fantastic roots so high, 
His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Muttering his Avaj^vard fancies he would rove; 
Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn. 
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 

"One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; 
Another came; nor yet beside the rill. 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; 

"The next, with dirges due, in sad array 
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne, — 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 

THE EPITAPH 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth 
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown; 
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth'' 
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; 

Heaven did a recompense as largely send; 

He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear; 

He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose. 
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 



''Fair Science . . . hirtli : In spite of liis luuuble bix'th he was a 
lover of learning. 



98 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

THE MAN IN THE HOUSE 
Katherine Tynan Hinkson 

Katherixe Tynax Hinkson (b. 1861, Ireland), the distinguished 
writer of verse and prose, was educated at the Dominican Convent, 
Drogheda. Her claim to the title of first poet of Ireland came with the 
publication of her Life of St. Patrick in verse. She has written novels, 
sketches, biographies, memoirs, biit it is in the field of poetry that she has 
done her best work. Her poetry collections are Shamrocks, Cuckoo Songs, 
The Land of Mists and Mountains, The Wind in the Trees, and A Rhymed 
Life of St. Patrick. Among her prose works are The Handsome Brandons, 
A Daughter of the Fields, A Girl of Galway, Luck of the Fairfaxes, Life 
of Father Matthevj, The Golden Lily. 

Joseph, honored from sea to sea, 
This is your name that pleases me, 

"Man of the House." 

I see you rise at the dawn and light 
The fire and blow till the flame is bright. 

I see you take the pitcher and carry 
The deep well-water for Jesus and Mary. 

You knead the corn for the bread so fine, 
Gatlier them grapes from the hanging vine. 

There are little feet that are soft and slow, 
Follow you whithersoever you go. 

There's a little face at your workshop door, 
A little one sits down on your floor; 

Holds His hands for the shavings curled. 

The soft little hands that have made the world. 

Mary calls you; the meal is ready; 

You swing the Child to your shoulder steady. 

I see your quiet smile as you sit 

And watch the little Son thrive and eat. 

The vine curls by the window space. 
The wings of angels cover their face. 

Up in the rafters polished and olden. 

There's a Dove that broods and his wings are golden. 

You who kept them through shine and storm, 
A staff, a shelter kindly and warm. 



LYRIC POE^IS 99 



Father of Jesus, husband of Mary, 
Hold us your lilies for sanctuary! 

Joseph, honored from sea to sea, 
Guard me mine and my own roof -tree, 
"Man of the House !" 



THE SKYLARK 
James Hogo 

James Hogg (b. 1770, Scotland — -d. ISn.")) -was of humble origin 
and, according to his own testimony, had no more than one-half year ol 
school. He spent his time stringing rustic rhymes together until it was 
his fortune to be noticed by Sir Walter Scott, who encouraged him to 
attempt something more pretentious. With the publication of Queen's 
WaJce his fame was established. 

Bird of the wilderness, 

Blithesome and cumberless, 
Sweet be thy matin o'er mooi'land and lea ! 

Emblem of happiness, 

Blest is thy dwelling-place, — 
Oh, to abide in the desert Avith thee. 

Wild is thy lay and loud, 

Far in the downy cloud, 
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. 

Where on thy dewy wing. 

Where art thou journeying? 
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. 

O'er fell and fountain sheen, 

O'er moor and mountain green. 
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, 

Over the cloudlet dim, 

Over the rainbow's rim, 
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! 

Then, when the gloaming comes, 

Low in the heather blooms 
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be ! 

Emblem of happiness. 

Blest is thy dwelling-place, — 
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee! 



100 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS 

Oliver Wendell Holmes 

Oliver Wendell Holjies (b. 1809, Cambridge, Mass. — d. 1894), 
poet, essayist, lecturer, and novelist, graduated from Harvard with the 
famous class of "29. He studied medicine and taught anatomy for 
thirty-five years at Harvard. He took part in founding the Atlantic 
Monthly Avhere his famoiis Autocrat of the Breakfast Table appeared. He 
is remembered for Old Ironsides, Elsie Tenner (a novel), Life of 
Enieison. Over the Teacups, etc. Though somewhat of a sceptic he admi- 
ted that the Catholic religion was at least "the best to die by." 

The Nautilus (in Greek "sailor") is a cuttlefish shaped like a 
winding spiral. It lives in a shell of many compartments and inhabits 
each new compartment as soon as it is formed, leaving the other forever. 
"The animal is not uncommon in the Mediterranean, and from its habit 
of floating at the surface attracted the attention of the sailors of* the 
Aegean sea from the earliest times. The popular belief that the expanded 
arms are raised above the water to act as sails and that the other arms 
arc used as oars was not based on actual observation of the living animal, 
and it is now known that although the animal floats at the siirface it 
does not sail (in poetry it may and actually does sail as Dr. Holmes 
tells us), the expanded arms being applied to the exterior surface of the 
shell, which is secreted by them."-^E ncy. Brit. 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign. 

Sails the unshadowed main, — 

The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the siren^ sings, 

And coral reefs lie bare, 
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streammg hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; 

Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! 

And every chambered cell, 
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 

Before thee lies revealed, — 
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed ! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 

That spread his lustrous coil; 

Still, as the spiral grew, 
He left the past year's dwelling for the new, 
Stole with soft step its shining archway through, 

Built up its idle door, 
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. 

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee. 
Child of the wandering sea. 



^ Siren : A fabulous sea-nyniph, half woman and half bird, that 
lured sailors by song to destruction. 



LYRIC POEMS 



101 



Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton^ blew from wreathed horn! 

While on mine ear it rings, 
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings 

Build thee more stately mansions, my soul, 

As the swift seasons roll! 

Leave thy Ioav -vaulted past! 
Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 

Till thou at length art free. 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! 



-Triton: A god of the sea who raised a storm or cahiied the waves 
by blowing on his conch-shell horn. 



DOROTHY Q.^ 

(A Family Portrait) 
Oliver Wendell Holmes 
Grandmother's mother: her age I guess. 
Thirteen summers, or something less; 
Girlish bust, but womanly air: 
Smooth, square forehead with uprolled hair. 
Lips that lover has never kissed; 
Taper fingers and slender wrist; 
Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade; 
So they painted the little maid. 

On her hand a parrot green 

Sits unmoving and broods serene. 

Hold up the canvas full in view, — 

Look ! there's a rent the light shines through, 

Dark with a century's fringe of dust, — 

That was a Red-Coat's rapier-thrust! 

Such is the tale the lady old, 

Dorothy's daughter's daughter told. 

Who the painter was none may tell, — 
One whose best was not over well; 
Hard and dry, it must be confessed. 



1 Dorothy Q. : Dorothy Quinr y, great-grandmother of Holmes. She 
was the niece of Josiah Qxiinry, the young patriot and orator, who died 
shortly before the Revolutionary War. 



102 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

Flat as a rose that has long been pressed: 
Yet in her cheek the hues are bright, 
Dainty colors of red and white, 
And in her slender shape are seen 
Hint and promise of stately mien. 

Look not on her with eyes of scorn,— 

Dorothy Q. was a lady born! 

Ay ! since the galloping Normans came,^ 

England's annals have known her name; 

And still to the three-hilled rebel town^ 

Dear is that ancient name's renown, 

For many a civic wreath they won. 

The youthful sire and the gray-haired son. 

Damsel Dorothy! Dorothy Q.! 
Strange is the gift that I owe to you; 
Such a gift as never a king 
Save to daughter or son might bring. 
All my tenure of heart and hand, 
All my title to house and land; 
Mother and sister and^child and wife 
And joy and sorrow and death and life I 

What if a hundred years ago 
Those close-shut lips had answered No, 
When forth the tremulous question came 
That cost the maiden her Norman name. 
And under the folds that look so still 
The bodice swelled with the bosom's thrill? 
Should I be I, or would it be . 
One-tenth another, to nine-tenths me? 

Soft is the breath of a maiden's Yes : 

Not the light gossamer stirs with less; 

But never a cable that holds so fast 

Through all the battles of wave and blast. 

And never an echo of speech or song 

That lives in the babbling air so long! 

There were tones in the voice that whispered then 

You may hear to-day in a hundred men. 

r^rmans ca.nc : In 1066 ^}^^ ,^ -^-r'::J:rtJr7"'"''^' ""^" ^''' 
'^^-•.%?:^^-;^:^'f:^:^'''io^^^^ the greater 

part of his life after his marriage in 1840. 



LYRIC POEMS 103 

lady and lover, how faint and far 
Your image hovers, — and here we are, 
Solid and stirring in flesh and bone, — 
Edward's and Dorothy's — all their own, — 
A goodly record for time to show 

Of a syllable spoken so long ago: — 
Shall I bless you, Dorothy, or forgive 
For the tender whisper that bade me live? 

It shall be a blessing, my little maid ! 

1 will heal the stab of the Red-Coat's blade. 
And freshen the gold of the tarnished frame. 
And gild with a rhyme your household name: 
So you shall smile on us brave and bright 

As first you greeted the morning's light. 
And live untroubled by woes and fears 
Tlirough a second youth of a hundred years. 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS 
Thomas Hood 

Thomas Hood, humorist and Inimanitarian, Avas born in London, 
1799, and died in London, 1845. His life was spent chiefly in editing 
magazines, to Avhich he contributed his poems, and in a vain search for 
health. He edited the London Magazine, Comic Annual, and Hood's 
Magazine. His humorous poems are remarkable for their brilliant pun- 
ning. His three or four serious poems, however, seem now the basis of 
his permanent reputation. 

One more unfortunate, 
Weary of breath. 
Rashly importunate. 
Gone to her death ! 

Take her up tenderly. 
Lift her with care! 
Fashioned so slenderly — 
Young, and so fair! 

Look at her garments 
Clinging like cerements. 
Whilst the wave constantly 
Drips from her clothing; 
Take her up instantly. 
Loving, not loathing! 



104 LOYOLA BOOK OF \^RSE 

Touch her not scornfully ! 
Think of her mournfully, 
Gently and humanly — 
Not of the stains of her; 
All that remains of her 
Now is pure womanly. 

Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutiny, 
Rash and undutiful; 
Past all dishonor. 
Death has left on her 
Only the beautiful. 

Still, for all slips of hers, 
One of Eve's family — 
Wipe those poor lips of hers, 
Oozing: so clammily. 

Loop up her tresses 
Escaped from the comb — 
Her fair auburn tresses — 
Whilst wonderment guesses 
Where was her home? 

Who was her father? 
Who was her mother? 
Had she a sister? 
Had she a brother? 
Or was there a dearer one 
Still, and a nearer one 
Yet, than all other? 

Alas ! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 
Under the sun ! 
Oh ! it was pitiful ! 
Near a whole city full. 
Home she had none. 

Sisterly, brotherly. 
Fatherly, motherly 
Feelings had changed — 
Love, by harsh evidence. 



LYRIC POEMS 105 



Thrown from its eminence; 
Even God's providence 
Seeming estranged. 

Where the lamps quiver 

So far in the river, 

With many a light 

From window and casement, 

From garret to basement, 

Slie stood with amazement, 

Houseless by night. 

The bleak wind of March 
Made her tremble and shiver : 
But not the dark arch, 
Or the black flowing river; 
Mad from life's history, 
Glad to death's mystery. 
Swift to be hurled — 
Any where, any where 
Out of the world ! 

In she plunged boldly — 
No matter how coldly 
The rough river ran — 
Over the brink of it ! 
Picture it — think of it! 
Dissolute man ! 
Lave in it, drink of it, 
Then, if you can ! 

Take her up tenderly — 
Lift her with care ! 
Fashioned so slenderly — 
Young and so fair! 

Ere her limbs frigidly. 
Stiffen too rigidly, 
Decently, kindly, 
Smooth and compose them; 
And her eyes, close them, 
Staring so blindly ! 



306 LOYOLA BOOK OF M^RSE 

Dreadfully staring 
Through muddy impurity, 
As when with the daring 
Last look of despairing 
Fixed on futurity. 

Perishing gloomily, 
Spurred by contumely, 
Cold inhumanity, 
Burning insanity. 
Into her rest! 
Cross her hands humbly, 
As if praying dumbly. 
Over her breast ! 

Owning her weakness. 
Her evil behavior, 
And leaving, with meekness. 
Her sins to her Saviour ! 



OXFORD 
Lionel Johnson 

Lionel Johxson (b. 1867, Kent, England — d. 1902), the famous 
Irish poet, was educated at Oxford and in 1891 became a Catholic. He 
wrote beautiful prose as well as verse. His fine work has been highly ap 
preciated by the critics, and Mr. W. B. Yeats has published his essay on 
Poetry and Nationality and has in preparation three volumes of his poetry. 

This poem is a splendid picture of the quiet scholarly atmosphere of 
Oxford recalling the great literary men Avho have come from its halls. 

Over, the four long 3'ears! And now there rings 
One voice of freedom and regret; Farewell! 
Now old remembrance sorrows, and now sings; 
But song from sorrow, now, I cannot tell. 

City of weather'd cloister and worn court: 
Grey city of strong towers and clustering spires: 
Where art's fresh loveliness would first resort; 
Where lingering art kindled her latest fires! 

Where on all liands, wondrous with ancient grace, 
Grace touch'd with age, rise works of goodliest men; 



LYRIC POEMS 107 

Next Wykeham's^ art obtain their splendid place 
The zeal of Inigo,- the strength of AVren.^ 

Where at each coign* of every antique street, 
A memory hath taken root in stone; 
There, Raleigh shone; there, toil'd Franciscan feet; 
There, Johnson flinch'd not, but endured alone. 

There, Shelley dream'd his white Platonic^ dreams; 

There, classic Landor^ throve on Roman thought; 

There, Addison pursued his quiet themes ; 

There, smiled Erasmus," and there, Colet^ taught. 

And there, memory more sweet than all ! 

Lived he,^ whose eyes keep yet our passing light; 

Whose crystal lips Athenian speech recall; 

Who wears Rome's purple with least pride, most right. 

That is the Oxford strong to charm us yet: 
Eternal in her beauty and her past. 
What, though her soul be vex'd? She can forget 
Cares of an hour ; only the great things last. 

Only tlie gracious air, only the charm, 
And ancient might of true humanities, ^^ 
These nor assault of man, nor time, can harm; 
Not these, nor Oxford with her memories. 

Together have we walked with willing feet 
Gardens of plenteous trees, bowering soft lawn; 



^Wykeham: William of Wykeham (1324-1404), an English Bishop 
and statesman, Lord High Chancellor of England, who built New Col- 
lege, Oxford. 

-Inigo: Inigo Jones (1573-1652), an English architect and writer, 
who restored Old St. Paul's, London. 

^Wren: Sir Christopher Wren (1632-1723), an English architect, 
designed Neiv St. Paul's Cathedral, London. 

* Coign : Corner. 

^ Platonic : Purely spiritual, not sensuous. 

^Landor: Walter Savage Landor (1775-1864), an English poet, 
dramatist and writer. 

''Erasmus: (1466-1536), a Dutch scholar, and theologian, who 
studied at Oxford and was a friend of Colet. He was professor of Greek 
at Cambridge. 

^ Colet: John Colet (1466-1519), English theologian and classical 
scholar, friend of Eramus and More. 

^ Lived he: Cardinal Newman (1801-1890), the great classic scholar 
and writer. 

" Humanities : the classical studies, poetry, rhetoric, grammar, the 
Greek and Roman classics, etc. 



108 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

Hills whither Amold^^ wander'd; and all sweet 
June meadows, from the troubling world withdrawn; 

Chapels of cedarn fragrance, and rich gloom 
Pour'd from empurpled panes on either hand; 
Cool pavements, carved with legends of the tomb; 
Grave haunts, where we might dream, and understand. 

Over, the four long years! And unknown powers 
Call to us, going forth upon our way ; 
Ah! Turn we, and look back upon the towers 
That rose above our lives, and cheer'd the day. 

Proud and serene, against the sky they gleam; 
Proud and secure, upon the earth they stand. 
Our city hath the air of a pure dream , 
And hers indeed is an Hesperian^ ^ land. 

Think of her so! The wonderful, the fair, 
The immemorial, and the ever young; 
The city sweet with our forefathers' care; 
The city where the Muses^^ all have sung. 

Ill times may be; she hath no thought of time; 
She reigns beside the waters yet in pride. 
Rude voices cry; but in her ears the chime 
Of full sad bells brings back her old springtide. 

Like to a queen in pride of place, she wears 
The splendour of a crown in Radcliffe's dome.^* 
Well fare she — well ! As perfect beauty fares. 
And those high places that are beauty's home. 



"Ar?ioW; Matthew- Airnold (1822-1888), an English poet, critic, and 
writer. 

^" Hesperian : Western. 

^^ Muses : The nine daughters of Zens, and goddesses of inspiration. 
They are, Calliope, Muse of epic poetry; Clio, of history; Euterpe, of 
lyric poetry; Thalia, of comedy and bucolic poetry; Melpomene, of tragedy; 
Terpsichore, of dancing; Erato, of erotic poetry; Polymnia, or Polyhymnia, 
of serious, sacred song; and Frania, of astronomy. 

'^'* RadcUffe's dome: The dome of Radcliffe's Library, Oxford, fonnded 
by John Radcliffe, an English physician (1650-1714). 



LYRIC POEMS 109 



TO AUTUMN 



John Keats 
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing Sun, 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run ; 
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees, 
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; 

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 
With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more. 
And still more, later flowers for the bees. 
Until they think warm days will never cease, 

For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells. 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? 

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 
Or on a half -reaped furrow sound asleep, 

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers ; 
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 

Steady thy laden head across a brook; 

Or by a cider-press, with patient look. 

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. 

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? 

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too ; 
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day. 

And touch the stubble-plains w^ith rosy hue, 
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 

Among the river sallows,^ borne aloft 

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ;2 

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft 

The red-breast whistles from a garden croft ;^ 
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 



^ Sallows : Willows. 

'Bourn: Boundary; here it means an enclosed piece of ground. 

3 Croft : A small bit of ground near a house ; plot. 



110 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

THE MERMAID TAVERN 

John Keats 
Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
What Elysium^ have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 
Have ye tippled drink more fine 
Than mine host's Canary wine?^ 

Or are fruits of Paradise 
Sweeter than those dainty pies 
Of venison? generous food! 
Drest as though bold Robin Hood^ 
Would, with his Maid Marian, 
Sup and biowse from horn and can. 

I have heard that on a day 
Mine host's sign-board fiew away, 
Nobody knew whither, till 
An astrologer's old quill 
To a sheepskin gave the story. 
Said he saw you in your glory. 
Underneath a new-old sign 
Sipping beverage divine. 
And pledging with contented smack 
The Mermaid in the Zodiac* 

Souls of Poets dead and gone. 
What Elysium have 3'e known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 



^Elysium: In Greek mythologrj-, paradise, the abode of the blessed 
dead. 

-Canary xvine: Famous wine from the Canary Islands. 

^ Robin Hood: A legendary medieval outlaw of the forest. 

* Zodiac : An imaginary belt encircling the heavens within which are 
the larger planets. 

THE HOUSEWIFE'S PRAYERi 
Blanche Mary Kelly 

^ Blanche jMaky Kelly (b. 1881, Troy, New York) was educated 

at the Sacred Heart Convent and was a number of years associate editor 

of the Catholic Encyclopedia. Published The Valley of Vision, and Mary, 
the Mother. 



^ From The Valley of Vision, published by The Encyclopedia Press, Inc. 
Reprinted by permission of author. 



LYRIC POEMS 111 

Lady, who Avith tender word 

Didst keep the house of Christ the Lord, 

Who didst set forth the bread and wine 

Before the Living Wheat and Vine, 

Eeverently didst make the bed 

Whereon was laid the holy Head 

That such a cruel pillow prest 

For our behoof, on Calvarj^'s crest; 

Be beside me while I go 

About my labors to and fro. 

Speed the wheel and speed the loom, 

Guide the needle and the broom, 

Make my bread rise sweet and light, 

Make my cheese come foamy white. 

Yellow may my butter be ' 

As cowslips blowing on the lea. 

Homely though my tasks and small, 

Be beside me at them all. 

Then when I shall stand to face 

Jesu in the judgment place. 

To me thy gracious help afford, 

Who art the Handmaid of the Lord. 



CHRISTMAS! 
Aline Kilmer 

Aline Kilmer (b. 1888, Norfolk, Virginia) is the widow of Joyce 
Kilmer, the poet. She was educated at the Vaile Deane School, Elizabeth, 
New Jersey, and with her husband joined the Catholic Church. She has 
published two volumes of poems, Candles that Bum and Vigils. 

"And shall you have a tree," they say, 
''Now one is dead and one away'?"^ 

Oh, I shall have a Christmas tree ! 
Brighter than ever it shall be; 
Dressed out with coloured lights to make 
The 'room all glorious for your sake. 



1 From Candles that Burn, published by George H. Doran Company. 
Reprinted by permission. 

- Rose, her young daughter, had died, and Joyce Kilmer, her husband 
had sailed for the battlefields of France. 



112 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

And under the Tree a Child shall sleep 
Near shepherds watching their wooden sheep. 
Threads of silver and nets of gold, 
Scarlet bubbles the Tree shall hold, 
And little glass bells that tinkle clear. 
I shall trim it alone but feel you near. 

And when Christmas Day is almost done, 
When they all grow sleepy one by one, 
When Kenton's books have all been read, 
When Deborah's climbing the stairs to bed, 

I shall sit alone by the fire and see 
Ghosts of you both come close to me. 
For the dead and the absent always stay 
With the one they love on Christmas Day. 



I SHALL NOT BE AFRAID 

Aline Kilmer 
I shall not be afraid any more. 

Either by night or day; 
What would it profit me to be afraid 

With you away? 

Now I am brave. In the dark night alone, 

All through the house I go. 
Locking the doors and making windows fast 

When sharp winds blow. 

For there is only sorrow in my heart, 

There is no room for fear. 
Rut how I wish I were afraid again, 

My dear, my dear! 



THE HOUSE WITH NOBODY IN IT 
Joyce Kilmer 

Joyce Kilmer (b. 1886, New Brunswick, N. J. — killed in action 
in France, 1918) was one of the mest promising of the young American 
poets, and even before his death his work both in prose and verse had won 
for him a wide reputation. With his wife, the poetess, Aline Kilmer, he 
entered the Catholic Church. His splendid biography, written by Robert 
Cortes HoUiday, was published a few years ago. Among his published 
books are Trees and Other Poems, The Circus and Other Essays. 




Joyce Kilmer 



LYRIC POEMS 113 

"Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track, 

I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and 

black. 
I sujDpose I've passed it a hundred times, but I alwaj^s stop 

for a minute 
And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody 

in it. 

I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such 

things ; 
That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings. 
I know this house isn't haunted, and I wish it were, I do; 
For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two. 

This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass. 
And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to 

the grass. 
It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be 

trimmed and tied; 
But what it needs the most of all is some people living inside. 

If I had a lot of money and all my debts were paid, 
I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade. 
I'd buy that place and fix it up the way it used to be. 
And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to 
them free. 

Now, a new house standing empty, with staring window and 

door. 
Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish, like a hat on its block in the 

store. 
But there's nothing mournful about it; it cannot be sad and 

lone 
For the lack of something within it that it has never known. 

But a house that has done what a house should do, a house 

that has sheltered life. 
That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his 

wife, 
A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and held up his 

stumbling feet. 
Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes 

could meet. 

From Trees and Other Poems, published by George H. Doran Com- 
pany. Reprinted by permission. 



114 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track, 

I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking 

back ; 
Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters 

fallen apart, 
For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with 

a broken heart. 



PRAYER OF A SOLDIER IN FRANCE 

Joyce Kilmer 
My shoulders ache beneath my pack; 
(Lie easier, Cross, upon His back). 

I march with feet that burn and smart; 
(Tread, Holy Feet, upon my heart). 

Men shout at me that may not speak; 

(They scourged Thy back and smote Thy cheek), 

I may not lift a hand to clear 
My eyes of salty drops that sear. 

(Then shall my guilty soul forget 
Thy agony of Bloody' Sweat?) 

Lord, Thou didst suffer more for me 
Than all the hosts of land and sea. 
So let me render back again 
This millionth of Thv gift. Amen. 



SERVANT GIRL AND GROCER BOY 

Joyce Kilmer 
Her lips' remark was: "Oh, you kid!" 
Her soul spoke thus (I know it did) ; 

"0 king of realms of endless joy, 
My own, my golden grocer's boy, 

I am a princess forced to dwell 
Within a lonely kitchen cell, 



LYRIC POEMS 115 

While you go dashing through the land 
With loveliness on every hand. 

Your whistle strikes my eager ears 
Like music of the choiring spheres. 

The mighty earth grows faint and reels 
Beneath your thundering wagon wheels. 

How keenly, perilously sweet 
To cling upon that swaying seat! 

How happy she who by your side 
•May share the splendors of that ride! 

Ah, if you will not take my hand 
And bear me off across the land. 

Then, traveler from Arcady, 
Remain awhile and comfort me. 

What other maiden can you find 
So young and delicate and kind?'' 

Her lips' remark was: "Oh, you kid!" 
Her soul spoke thus (I know it did). 



TREES 

Joyce Kilmer 
I think that I shall never see 
A poem lovely as a tree. 

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest 
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; 

A tree that looks at God all day, > 

And lifts her leafy arms to pray; 

A tree that may in Summer wear 
A nest of robins in her hair; 

Upon whose bosom snow has lain; 
Who intimately lives with rain. 

Poems are made by fools like me, 
But only God can make a tree. 



116 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

BALLAD OF TREES AND THE MASTER 
Sidney Lanier 

SiDXEY Lanier (b. 1842, Macon, Georgia — d. 1881), a distinguished 
poet of the South, served in the Confederate army, and contracted in the 
service an affection of the lungs that left him an invalid the rest of his 
life. He lived in Baltimore, devoting his time to poetry and music. His 
Science of English Verse is probably the best book in English on that 
subject. He wrote a novel, Tiger Lilies, and a history of Florida. 

"Into the woods my Master went, 

Clean forspent, forspent. 

Into the woods my Master came, 

Forspent with love and shame. 

But the olives they were not blind to Him, 

The little gray leaves were kind to Him; 

The thorn-tree had a mind to Him 

When into the woods He came. 

"Out of the woods my Master went, 

And He was well content. 

Out of the woods my Master came, 

Content with death and shame. 

When Death and Shame would woo Him last, 

From under the trees they drew Him last; 

'Twas on a tree thej' slew Him — last 

When out of the woods He came." 



IRELAND, MOTHER OF PRIESTS^ 

Shaxe Leslie 

Shane Leslie (b. 1886, IMonaghan, Ireland) was educated at Eton 
and the L^niversity of Paris. He spent much of his time among the poor 
in Ireland in whom he was much interested, and took part in the Celtic 
revival. He is editor of the Dublin Revieiv and besides many volumes on 
Irish affairs has published The End of the Chapter, and Verses in Peace 
and War. 
\ 

The fishwife sits by the side 

Of her childing bed, 

Her fire is deserted and sad. 

Her beads are long said; 

Her tears ebb and flow with the sea. 

Her grief on the years. 

But little she looks to the tide. 

And little she hears; 



^ Reprinted by permission of the author. 



LYRIC POEMS 117 

For children in springtime play round 

Her sorrowing heart, 

To win them their feeding she loves 

To hunger apart; 

Her children in summer she counts 

Aw^hile for her own; 

But winter is ever the same, 

The loved ones are flown. 

Far over the sea they are gone. 

Far out of her ken 

They travel the furthest of seas 

As fishers of men. 

Yet never a word to her sons 

To keep them at home. 

And never a motherly cry 

Goes over the foam; 

She sits with her head in her hands. 

Her eyes on the flame. 

And thinks of the others that played, 

Yet left her the same. 

With vesture she wove on the loom 

Four-colored to be, 

And lanterns she trimmed with her hair 

To light them to sea. 

Oh, far have the living ones gone. 

And further the dead. 

For spirits come never to watch 

The fisherwife's bed; 

And sonless she sits at the hearth, 

And peers at the flame. 

She knows that their fishing must come 

As ever it came — 

A fishing that never set home. 

But seawards it led, 

For God who has taken her sons 

Has buried her dead. 



118 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

WISHES FOR MY SON^ 

Born on St. Cecilia's Day, 1912 

Thomas MacDonagh 

Thomas MacDonagh was one of that brilliant and patriotic group 
of literary men who suffered death at the hands of the English govern- 
ment for taking part in the Revolution of Easter Week, 1916. He taught 
at St. Enda's, the Gaelic school founded by Padraic Pearse. A great 
classicist, he knew poetry well in English, French, Latin, and Irish. 
Among his published works are Through the Ivory Gates, The Golden Joy, 
SonrfS of Myself, and April and May. 

Now, my son, is life for you — 
And I wish you joy of it, — 
Joy of power in all you do. 
Deeper passion, better wit 
Than I had who had enough, 
Quicker life and length thereof, 
More of every gift but love. 

Love I have beyond all men, 
Love that now you share with me — 
What have I to wish you then 
But that you be good and free, 
And that God to you may give 
Grace in stronger days to live? 

For I wish you more than I 
Ever knew of glorious deed. 
Though no rapture passed me by 
That an eager heart could heed, 
Though I followed heights and sought 
Things the sequel never brought. 

Wild and perilous holy things 
Flaming with a martyr's blood, 
And the joy that laughs and sings 
Where a foe must be withstood, 
Joy of headlong happy chance 
Leading on the battle dance. 

But I found no enemy. 

No man in a world of wrong, 

That Christ's word of Charity 



* From Poems of the Irish Rcvolutionar)/ Brotherhood. Reprinted by 
I)ermission of Small, Maynard and Co., publishers. 



LYRIC POEMS 119 

Did not render clean and strong. 
Who was I to judge my kind, 
Blindest groper of the blind? 

God to you may give the sight 
And the clear undoubting strength 
Wars to knit for single right, 
Freedom's war to knit at length, 
And to win, through wrath and strife, 
To the sequel of my life. 

But for you, so small and young, 

Born on St. Cecilia's Day, 

I in more harmonious song 

Now for nearer joys should pray — 

Simple joys; the natural growth 

Of your childhood and your youth. 

Courage, innocence and truth; 

These for you, so small and young. 
In your hand and heart and tongue. 



THE MAN WITH THE HOEi 

Written after seeing Millefs World-Famous Painting 

Edwin Markham 

Edwin Markham (b. 1852), plow-boy and cow-boy, spent his youth 
in California, worked his way through college and taught in the State Uni- 
versity. Published three volumes of verse and one prose work, California 
the Wonderful. The Ma)i ivith the Hoe has been called the "battle-cry of 
the next thousand years." He is now living at West New Brighton, New 
York. 

Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans 

Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground. 

The emptiness of ages in his face, 

And on his back the burden of the world. 

Who made him dead to rapture and despair, 

A thing that grieves not and that never hopes. 

Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox"? 

Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw? 

Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow? 

Whose breath blew out the light within this brain? 

1 Prom The ilan ulth the Hoe and Other Poems. Reprinted by per- 
mission of the author. 



120 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave 

To have dominion over sea and land; 

To trace the stars and search the heavens for power; 

To feel the passion of Eternity? 

Is this the dream He dreamed who shaped the suns 

And marked their ways upon the ancient deep? 

Down all the caverns of Hell to their last gulf 

There is no shape more terrible than this — 

More tongued with censure of the world's blind greed — 

More tilled with signs and portents for the soul — 

More packed with danger to the universe. 

What gulfs between him and the seraphim! 
Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him 
Are Plato^ and the swing of Pleiades ^^ 
What the long reaches of the peaks of song. 
The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose? 
Through this dread shape the suffering ages look; 
Time's tragedy is in that aching stoop; 
Through this dread shape humanity betrayed, 
Plundered, profaned, and disinherited, 
Cries protest to the Judges of the World, 
A protest that is also prophecy. 

masters, lords and rulers in all lands, 

Is this the handiwork you give to God, 

This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched? 

How will you ever straighten up this shape; 

Touch it again with immortality; 

Give back the upward looking and the light; 

Rebuild in it the music and the dream; 

Make right the immemorial infamies, 

Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes? 

masters, lords and rulers of the lands, 
How will the Future reckon Avith this man? 
How answer his brute question in that hour 
When Avhirlwinds of rebellion shake all shores? 
How will it be with kingdoms and with kings — 
With those who shaped him to the thing he is — 
When this^ dumb Terror shall rise to judge the world,. 
After the silence of the centuries? 



^ Plato : Greek philosopher and writer. 

- Pleiades : Gro\ip of stars in the constellation Taurus. 




Theodore Maynard 



LYRIC POEMS 121 

THE WORLD'S MISERY 
Theodore Maynard 

Theodore Maynard (b. 1890, Madras, India) at the age of ten was 
brought to England to be educated. He came to the United States in 1909 
to study for the Congregational Ministry, but after a sermon preached on 
fools, the deacons suspected him of heresy and demanded his resignation. 
In 1911 he returned to England and in 1913 was received into the Roman 
Catholic Church. Mr. G. K. Chesterton wrote to him before he began his 
lecture four in America: "Your spirited sort of poetry and your slashing 
sort of criticism seem to me exactly the sort of thing the world wants just 
now; the old combination of having something to say with being able to 
say it plain." Among his published works are Poems, Carven from the 
Laurel Tree (essays), A Tankard of Ale, The Divine Adventure (novel), 
and The Last Knight and Other Poems. 

A miser with an eager face 

Sees that each roseleaf is in place. 

He keeps beneath strong bolts and bars 
The piercing beauty of the stars. 

The colours of the dying day 

He hoards as treasure — well He may ! — 

And saves with care (lest they be lost) 
The dainty diagrams of frost. 

He counts the hairs of every head, 
And grieves to see a sparrow dead. 

II 
Among the yellow primroses 
He holds His Summer palaces. 

And sets the grass about them all 

To guard them as His spearmen small. 

He fixes on each wayside stone 
A mark to show it as His own, 

And knows when raindrops fall through air 
Whether each single one be there, 

That gathered into ponds and brooks, 
They may become His picture books, 

To show in every spot and place 
The living glory of His face. 



^ Reprinted by permission of the author. 



122 LOYOLA BOOK OF M<:RSE 

A SONG OF LAUGHTER! 

Theodore Maynard 
The stars with their laughter are shaken; 

The long waves laugh at sea; 
And the little Imp of Laughter 

Laughs in the soul of me. 

I know the guffaw of a tempest, 

The mirth of a blossom and bud — 
But I laugh when I think of how Cuchulain^ laughed 

At the crows with their bills in his blood. 

The mother laughs low at her baby, 

The bridegroom with joy in his bride — 
And I think that Christ laughed when they took Him with 
staves 

On the night before He died. 



1 Reprinterl by permission of the author. 
-Cuchulnin: Legendary King of Irehind. 



AH, SWEET IS TIPPERARYi 
Denis A. McCarthy 

Denis Ai.oysius McCarthy (b. 1871, Tipperary, Ireland), journalist, 
lecturer, and poet, has published two books of verse, Voices from Erin and 
A Round of Rimes. He came to the United States in 1886 and since 1889 
has been associate editor of the Sacred Heart Review. He is much in 
demand as a speaker and reader at literary clubs. 

Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the springtime of the year, 

When the hawthorne's whiter than the snow, 
When the feathered folk assemble, and the air is all a-tremble 

With their singing and their winging to and fro; 
When queenly Slievenamon puts her verdant vesture on, 

And smiles to hear the news the breezes bring. 
And the sun begins to glance on the rivulets that dance — 

Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the Spring. 

Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the springtime of the year, 

When mists are rising from the lea, 
When the Golden Vale is smiling with a beauty all beguiling. 

And the Suir goes crooning to the sea; 
And the shadows and the showers only multiply the flowers 

^ From A Round of Rimes, published by Little, Brown and Company- 
Reprinted by permission of the author. 



LYRIC POEMS 123 

That the lavish hand of May will fling ; 
Where in unfrequented ways, fairy music softly plays — 
Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the Spring! 

Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the springtime of the year, 

When life like the year is young, 
When the soul is just awaking like a lily blossom breaking, 

And love words linger on the tongue; 
When the blue of Irish skies is the hue of Irish eyes, 

And love dreams cluster and cling 
Round the heart and round the brain, half of pleasure, half 
of pain — 

Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the Spring. 



THE SHEPHERDESSi 

Alice Meynell 

Alice Tiiomi'Sox Meynell (b. 1855, England) is the sister of Lady- 
Butler, painter of the famous "Roll Call." She was educated in England, 
Italy, and France, and throiigh the encouragement of John Ruskin, a 
friend of ihe family, she published Prehulcs in 1876. She is famous as 
an essayist as well as a poet. She is the Avife of Wilfred Meynell, the 
famous journalist who discovered Francis Thompson, the poet. Her son, 
Everard, has written the authoritative life of Thompson. Maurice Egan 
styles Mrs. Meynell "the sweetest and most artistic, if not the greatest, 
of all Avomen poets." Coventry Patmore said that he regarded Mrs. 
Meynell "as the first woman of genius who combined the delicacy of a 
feminine with the intellectual force of a masculine mind." Her works 
include Poems, The Rhythm of Life, The Colour of Life, The Children, 
The Spirit of J'lnce, John Ruskin, etc. After the death of Alfred Austin, 
Mrs. Meynell was the popular choice for Poet Laureate of the Realm. 

She walks — the lady of my delight — 

A shepherdess of sheep. 
Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white; 

She guards them from the steep; 
She feeds them on the fragrant height. 

And folds them in for sleep. 

She roams maternal hills and bright, 

Dark valleys safe and deep. 
Into that tender breast at night 

The chastest stars may peep. 
She walks — the lady of my delight — 

A shepherdess of sheep. 

From Poems, published by Charles Scribner's Sons. Reprinted by 
permission of publishers. 



124 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

She holds her little thoughts in sight, 
Though gay they run and leap.' 

She is so circumspect and right; 
She has her soul to keep. 

She walks — the lady of my delight — 
A shepherdess of sheep. 



PRO P ATRIA MORI 
Thomas Moore 

Thomas Moore (b. 1779, Dublin — d. Wiltshire, England, 1852), 
celebrated for his Irish Melodies, came to London with some fame as a 
rising poet. He was a friend of Byron. He published LaUa Rookh, an 
oriental tale, in 1817. He won some distinction as a satirist and a prose 
writer by his biographies, particularly his Life, Letters, and Journal of 
Lord Byron. 

The title of the poem is taken from Horace's Odes, Book III, ode 
2, and is the conclusion of the line which means, "It is sweet and glorious 
to die for the fatherland." These lines, addressed to Ireland, are put in 
the mouth of Robert Emmet (1778-1803) who was executed for his share 
in the rebellion of the Irish people against the tyrannous rule of England. 

When he who adores thee has left but the name 

Of his fault and his sorrows behind, 
Oh, say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame 

Of a life that for thee was resign'd? 
Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn. 

Thy tears shall efface their decree; 
For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, 

I have been but too faithful to thee. 



With thee were the dreams of my earliest love; 

Every thought of my reason was thine: 
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above, 

Thy name shall be mingled with mine! 
Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live, 

The days of thy glory to see; 
But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give 

Is the pride of thus dying for thee. 



LYRIC POEMS 125 

LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT 
Cardinal Newman 

John Henry, Cardinal Newman (b. 1801, London — d. 1890), 
controversialist, poet, theologian, essayist, novelist, is by many considered 
the first man of letters of his time. The nineteenth century during which 
so many jcreat literary men flourished, is frequently spoken of as the 
"Age of Newman." Newman was the leader in that great spiritual reac- 
tion In England known as the Oxford movement, and it was while engaged 
in the controversy between Anglicanism and Catholicity that Newman 
became a Catholic. He was ordained a priest at Rome and, returning to 
England, founded the Oratory of St. Philip Neri. His works number 
thirty-four volumes, of which the most popular are The Idea of a Univer- 
sity, Loss and Gain, A Grammar of Assent, Apologia, Verses on Various 
Occasions, which contains his most remarkable poem. The Dream of 
Gerontius. Alfred Austin, who was poet laureate, described Newman as 
"the man in the working of whose individual mind the intelligent portion 
of the English public is more interested than in that of any other living 
person." Matthew Arnold says, "There needs a miracle of genius like 
Shakespeare's to produce balance of mind, and a miracle of intellectual 
delicacy like Dr. Newman's to produce urbanity of style." 

Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, 

Lead Thou me on! 
The night is dark, and I am far from home — 

Lead Thou me on! 
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see 
The distant scene,— one step enough for me. 

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou 

Shouldst'lead me on; 
I loved to choose and see my path; but now. 

Lead Thou me on! 
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, 
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years! 

So long Thy power has blest me, sure it still 

Will lead me on 
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till 

The night is gone; 
And with the mom those angel faces smile 
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile ! 



IRELAND 

John Boyle O'Reilly 

John Boyle O'Reilly (b. 1844, Meath, Ireland — d. U. S., 1890), 
Irish patriot and exile, took part in the revolutionary movement in Ireland, 
1863, was tried for treason and sentenced to twenty years' penal servitude; 
escaped from Australia, and landed in America in 1869, where he found 
employment in the office of the Boston Pilot. Oratory, journalism, and 



126 LOYOLA BOOK OF \'ERSE 

poetry were all enriched by his tongue and pen. His works include Songs 
from the Southern Seas; Songs, Legends, and Ballads; Statues in the 
Block; America; In Bohemiu. 

"Island of Destiny! Innisfail 1"^ they cried, when their weary 

eyes 
First looked on thy beauteous bosom from the amorous ocean 

rise. 
"Island of Destiny! Innisfail!" we cry, dear land, to thee, 
As the sun of thy future rises and reddens the western sea! 

Pregnant as earth with its gold and gems and its metals 

strong and fine, 
Is thy soul with its ardors and fancies and sympathies divine. 
Mustard seed of the nations! they scattered thy leaves to the 

air, 
But the ravisher pales at the harvest that flourishes everywhere. 

Queen in the right of thy courage! manacled, scourged, de- 
famed, 

Thy voice in the teeth of the bayonets the right of a race 
proclaimed. 

"Bah!" they sneered from their battlements, "her people can- 
not unite; 

They are sands of the sea, that break before the rush of our 
ordered might !" 

And wherever the flag of the pirate flew, the English slur was 

heard. 
And the shallow of soul re-echoed the boast of the taunting 

w^ord. 
But we, O sun, that of old was our god, we look in thy face 

today, 
As our Druids- who prayed m the ancient time, and with them 

we proudly say; 

"We have wronged no race, we have robbed no land, we have 

never oppressed the weak!" 
And this in the face of Heaven is the nobler thing to speak. 
We can never unite — thank God for that ! in such unity as 

yours. 
That strangles the rights of others, and only itself endures. 



'^Innisfail: A poetical name of Ireland. 
^ Druid: A priest of ancient Ireland. 



LYRIC POEMS 127 

The races tliat band for plunder are the mud of the human 

stream, 
The base and the coward and sordid, without an unselfish 

gleam. 
It is mud that unites; but the sand is free — ay, every grain 

is free. 
And the freedom of individual men is the highest of liberty. 

It is mud that coheres; but the sand is free, till the lightning 

smite the shore, 
And smelt the grains to a crystal mass, to return to sand no 

more. 
And so with the grains of our Irish sand, that flash clear-eyed 

to the sun, 
Till a noble Purpose smites them and melts them into one. 

Island of Destiny! Innisfail! for thy faith is the payment 

near; 
The mine of the future is opened, and the golden veins appear. 
Thy hands are white and thy page unstained. Reach out for 

the glorious years, 
And take them from God as His recompense for thy fortitude 

and tears. 

Erin, fresh in the latest day, like a gem from a Syrian tomb, 
The burial clay of the centuries has saved thy light in the 

gloom. 
Thy hands may stretch to a kindred world; there is none that 

hates but one; 
And she but hates as a pretext for the rapine she has done. 

The night of thy grief is closing, and the sky in the East 

is red; 
Thy children watch from the mountain tops for the sun to 

kiss thy head. 
Mother of men that are fit to be free, for tiieir test for 

freedom borne, 
Thy vacant i)lace in the Nations' race awaits but the coming 

morn! 



128 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 



THE TOYS 
Coventry Patmore 

Coventry Patmore (b. 1832, Essex, England — d. 1896), poet and 
critical essayist, enjoyed the intimate friendship of Lamb, Leigh Hunt, 
and Hazlitt. In 1862 while in Rome he became a Catholic, and later 
moved to Hastings, where he built a large Catholic church. His domestic 
life was very happy — so very happy that he became the poet of domestic 
felicity. He cared little for fame. His chief works are The Angel in the 
House, The Faithful Flower, Victories of Love, St. Bernard, The Unknown 
Eros, and Rod, Root, and Floiver. Of The Angel in the House, his mas- 
terpiece, Ruskin wrote, "It is a most finished piece of writing, with its 
extraordinary subtlety of thought and emotion, rendered with the faultless 
simplicity of an elaborate and conscious art. It is the sweetest analysis 
we possess of quiet, modern domestic feeling." 

My little son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes 

And mov'd and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, 

Having my law the seventh time disobey'd, 

I struck him, and dismiss'd 

With hard words and unkiss'd, 

His Mother, who was patient, being dead. 

Then fearing lest his grief should hinder him sleep 

I visited his bed. 

But found him slumbering deep, 

With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet 

From his late sobbing wet. 

And I, with moan. 

Kissing aAvay his tears, left others of my own; 

For, on a table drawn beside his head. 

He had put, within his reach, 

A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone, 

A piece of glass abraded by the beach. 

And six or seven shells, 

A bottle with bluebells 

And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, 

To comfort his sad heart. 

So when that night I pray'd 

To God, I wept, and said: 

''Ah. when at last we lie with tranced breath, 

Not vexing Thee in death. 

And Thou rememberest of what toys 

We made our joys, 

How weakly understood 

Thy great commanded good. 



LYRIC POEMS 129 

Then, fatherly, not less 

Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, 

Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, 

"I will be sorry for their childishness." 



I SEE HIS BLOOD UPON THE ROSE 
Joseph Mary Plunkett 

Joseph Maby Plunkett, one of the Irish martyrs of the Easter 
Revolution, 1916, belonged to a family whose name was prominent in 
Irish history for six hundred years. He was the pupil and friend of 
Thomas MacDonagh, the poet, who together with Plunkett edited the 
Irish Review and ran a literary theatre. In 1913 he published a book of 
Terse. The Circle and Sword. 

I see his blood upon the rose 
And in the stars the glory of his eyes, 
His body gleams amid eternal snows. 
His tears fall from the skies. 

I see his face in every flower; 
The thunder and the singing of the birds 
Are but his voice — and earven by his power 
Rocks are his written words. 

All pathways by his feet are worn. 
His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea. 
His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn, 
His cross is every tree. 



THE BELLS 

Edgar Allan Poe 

I 
Hear the sledges with the bells — 
Silver bells! 
What a world of merriment their melody foretells! 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 

In the icy air of night ! 
While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens seem to twinkle 
, With a crystalline delight; 

Keeping time, time, time. 



130 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

In a sort of Runic^ rhyme, 
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells — 
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 

II 
Hear the mellow wedding bells. 
Golden bells! 
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight! 
From the molten-golden notes, 

And all in tune. 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
On the moon! 
Oh, from out the sounding cells, 
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! 
How it swells! 
How it dwells 
On the Future! how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 
Of the bells, bells, bells. 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells — 
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! 

Ill 
Hear the loud alarum bells — 
Brazen bells! 
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright! 
Too much horrified to speak, 
They can only shriek, shriek. 
Out of tune. 
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, 



1 Runic : Mysterious. The alphabet of the Norsemen consisted of 16 
letters called runes, the origin of which is not known. The signification 
of the word rune (mystery) seems to point to the fact that in the b^in- 
iiing only a few were acciuaiuted with the use of these marks, which were 
ijaostly applied to secret tricks, witchcrafts, etc. 



LYRIC POEMS 131 

In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic lire 
Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
With a desperate desire, 
And a resolute endeavor 
Now — now to sit or never. 
By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
Oh, the bells, bells, bells ! 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of Despair! 
How they clang, and clash, and roar. 
What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air ! 
Yet the ear it fully knows, 
By the twanging, 
And the clanging. 
How the danger ebbs and flows: 
Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
In the jangling. 
And the wrangling. 
How the danger sinks and swells, 
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells — 
Of the bells— 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells— 
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! 

IV 

Hear the tolling of the bells — 
Iron bells! 
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! 
In the silence of the night. 
How we shiver with affright. 
At the melancholy menace of their tone; 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 

Is a groan. 
And the people — ah, the people — 
They that dwell up in the steeple, 

All alone, 
And who tolling, tolling, tolling, 

In that muffled monotone. 
Feel a glory in so rolling 



132 LOYOLA BOOK OF \'ERSE 

On the human heart a stone — 
They are neither man nor woman — 
They are neither brute nor human — 
They are Ghouls i^ 
And their king it is who tolls; 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 

Rolls 
A paean from the bells ! 
And his merry bosom swells 

With the paean of the bells ! 
And he dances, and he yells; 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
To the paean of the bells — 
Of the bells: 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rh}Tne, 

To the throbbing of the bells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells— 

To the sobbing of the bells; 
Keeping time, time, time, 

As he knells, knells, knells. 
In a happy Runic rhyme, 

To the rolling of the bells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells — , 
To the tolling of the bells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells — 
Bells, bells, bells — 
To the moaning and tne groaning of the bells. 



ANNABEL LEE 

Edgar Allan Poe 
It was many and many a year ago, 

In a kingdom by the sea. 
That a maiden there lived whom you may know 

By the name of Annabel Lee; 
And this maiden she lived with no other thought 

Than to love and be loved bv me. 



^ Ghoul : An evil spirit supposed to prey on corpses; one whe robs 
A grave. 



LYRIC POEMS 133 

I was a child and she was a child, 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
But we loved with a love that was more than love — 

I and my Annabel Lee; 
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 

Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that, long ago, 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 

My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
So that her highborn kinsman came 

And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulcher 

In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 

Went envying her and me — 
Yes! — that was the reason (as all men know. 

In this kingdom by the sea) 
That the wind came out of the cloud by night. 

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love 

Of those who were older than we — 

Of many far wiser than we — 
And neither the angels in heaven above, 

Nor the demons down under the sea. 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
• Of the beautiful Annabel Lee : 

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side 
Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride 

In the sepulcher there by the sea, 

In her tomb by the sounding sea. 



134 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

TO MY MOTHER 

Edgar Allax Poe 

Because I feel that in the Heavens above, 

The angels, whispering to one another, 
Can find, among their burning terms of love. 

None so devotional as that of "Mother," 
Therefore by that dear name I long have called you — 

You who are more than mother^ unto me, 
And fill my heart of hearts, where death installed you, 

In setting my Virginia's spirit free. 
My mother — my own mother, Avho died early, 

Was but the mother of myself; but you 
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly, 

And thus are dearer than the mother I knew 
By that infinity with Avhieh my Avife 

Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life. 

SOLITUDE 
Alexander Pope 

Alexander Pope ih. 1688, London — d. 1744) holds first place among 
the literary men who flourished in Queen Anne's time, his best work being 
poetical essays. He lived and died a Catholic. His writings embrace the 
Essay on Criticisii(, The Rape of the Lock, a mock-heroic epic, Essay on 
Man, the most lofty of his poems, and Translation of Homer. "In sub- 
limity, imagination and pathos. Pope cannot enter into comparison with 
Spenser, Shakespeare, ililton ; and, when compared with Dryden, the 
mind hesitates in the allotment of superiority. Without contest he is the 
most brilliant and accomplished of what are called artificial poets.'" — 
Dublin Review. 

Solitude is a translation of Horace's second Epode and was made by 
Pope when he was twelve years old. 

Happy the man, Avhose Avish and care 
A fcAV paternal acres bound, 
Content to breathe his native air 

In his OAvn ground. 

Whose herds Avith milk, Avhose fields with bread, 
Whose flocks supply him Avith attire; 
Whose trees in summer yield him shade. 
In Avinter, fire. 

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find 
Hours, days, and years, slide soft away 



^ Afore than mother: His aunt, who was also his mother-in-law. Mrs. 
Clemm. 



LYRIC POEMS 135 



In health of body, peace of mind, 
Quiet by day, 

Sound sleep by night; study and ease 
Together mixt, sweet recreation. 
And innocence, which most does please 
With meditation. 

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; 
Thus unlamented let me die; 
Steal from the world, and not a stone 
Tell where I lie. 



WHY THE ROBIN'S BREAST IS RED 
James Ryder Randall 

James Ryder Randall (b. 1839, Baltimore, Maryland — d. 1908), 
said to be a direct descendant of Rene Leblanc, the "gentle notary" of 
Longfellow's Evangeline, is best known for his immortal Maryland! My 
Maryland ! He was educated at Georgetown ^College, spent some time in 
travel and taught English literature in Poydras College, Louisiana, which 
at that time was a flourishing educational institution. 

The Saviour, bowed beneath His Cross, climbed up the dreary 

hill. 
And from the agonizing wreath ran many a crimson rill; 
The cruel Roman thrust Him on with unrelenting hand. 
Till, staggering slowly 'mid the crowd. He fell upon the sand. 

A little bird that warbled near, that memorable day, 

Flitted around and strove to wrench one single thorn "away; 

The cruel spike impaled his breast, — and thus 'tis sweetly 

said, 
The robin has his silver vest incarnadined with red. 

Ah, Jesu! Jesu! Son of man! my dolor and my sighs 
Reveal the lesson taught by this winged IshmaeP of the skies. 
I, in the palace of delight or cavern of despair. 
Have plucked no thorns from Thy dear brow, but planted 
thousands there! 



^Ishmael: A wanderer. Ishmael, the son of Abraham, was exiled 
with Hagar, his mother. 



136 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

A CHILD'S WISH 

(Before an Altar) 
Abram J. Ryan 

Rev. Abeam Joseph Ryan (b. 1839, Norfolk, Virginia — d. 1886), 
known as the "Poet-Priest of the South," was chaplain in the Confederate 
Army during the Civil War, and one gets an idea of his intense love of 
the South from his deeds and writings. "Although many of his poems lack 
finish — he often Avorked haphazard, like Lord Byron — yet the real poetic 
fire and true poetic inspiration are there. Shall we add his name to the 
small number of literary Immortals produced by America ? If we do so, 
several million voices south of Mason and Dixon's line will acclaim the 
act; and the gracious ^S'orlh will say. Amen." — Sheran. 

I wish I were the little key 

That locks Love's Captive in, 
And lets Him out to go and free 

A sinful heart from sin. 

I wish I Avere the little bell 

That tinkles for the Host, 
When God comes down each day to dwell 

With hearts He loves the most. 

I wish I were the chalice fair, 

That holds the Blood of Love, 
When every flash lights holy prayer 

Upon its way above. 

I wish I were the little flower 

So near the Host's sweet face, 
Or like the light that half an hour 

Burns on the shrine of graca 

I w'ish I were the altar where. 

As on His mother's breast, 
Christ nestles, like a child, fore'er 

In Eucharistic rest. 

But, oh! my God, I wish the most 

That my poor heart may be 
A home all holy for each Host 

That comes in love to me. 



LYRIC POEMS 137 

SONG OF THE MYSTIC 
Abram J. RYAisr 

I walk down the Valley of Silence — 

Down the dim, voiceless valley — alone! 
And I hear not the fall of a footstep 

Around me, save God's and my own; 
And the hush of my heart is as holy 

As hovers^ where angels have flown! 

Long ago was I weary of voices 

Whose music my heart could not win; 
Long ago was I weary of noises 

That fretted my soul with their din; 
Long ago was I weary of places 

Where I met but the human — and sin. 

I walked in the world with the worldly; 

I craved what the world never gave; 
And I said: "In the world each Ideal, 

That shines like a star on life's wave. 
Is wrecked on the shores of the Real, 

And sleeps like a dream in a grave." 

And still did I jjine for the Perfect, 

And still found the False with the True; 

I sought 'mid the Human for Heaven, 
But caught a mere glimpse of its Blue: 

And I wept w^hen the clouds of the Mortal 
Veiled even that glimpse from my view. 

And I toiled on, heart-tired of the Human, 

And I moaned 'mid the mazes of men. 
Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar • 

And I heard a voice call me. Since then 
I w^alk down the Valley of Silence 

That lies far ,beyond mortal ken. 

Do you ask what I found in the Valley? 

'Tis my Trysting Place with the Divine. 
And I fell at the feet of the Holy, 

And above me a voice said : "Be mine." 



^ Hover : A shelter or retreat. 



138 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

And there arose from the depths of my spirit 
An echo — "My heart shall be thine." 

Do you ask how I live in the Valley? 

I weep — and I dream — and I pray. 
But my tears are as sweet as the dew-drops 

That fall on the roses in May; 
And my prayer, like a perfume from censers, 

Ascendeth to God night and day. 

In the hush of the Valley of Silence 
I dream all the songs that I sing; 

And the music floats down the dim Valley, 
Till each finds a word for a wing. 

That to hearts, like the Dove of the Deluge, 
A message of Peace they may bring. 

But far on the deep there are billows 
That never shall break on the beach; 

And I have heard songs in the Silence 
That never shall float into speech ; 

And I have had dreams in the Valley 
Too lofty for language to reach. 

And T have seen Thoughts in the Valley — 
Ah me! how my spirit was stirred! 

And they wear holy veils on their faces. 
Their footsteps can scarcely be heard ; 

They pass through the Valley like Virgins, 
Too pure for the touch of a word ! 

Do you ask me the place of the Valley, 
Ye hearts that are harrowed by Care? 

It lieth afar between mountains, 
And God and His angels are there: 

And one is the dark mount of Sorrow, 
And one the bright mountain of Prayer. 



LYRIC POEMS 139 

HUNTING SONG 

Walter Scott 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 

On the mountain dawns the day; 

All the jolly chase is here 

With hawk and horse and hunting-spear; 

Hounds are in their couples yelling, 

Hawks are w'histling, horns are knelling, 

Merrily, merrily mingle they, 

'Waken, lords and ladies gay.' 

Waken, lords and ladies gay. 

The mist has left the mountain gray, 

Springlets in the dawn are steaming. 

Diamonds on the brake are gleaming; 

And foresters have busy been 

To track the buck in thicket green; 

Now we come to chant our lay 

'Waken, lords and ladies gay.' 

Waken, lords and ladies gay. 
To the greenwood haste away; 
We can show^ you where he lies. 
Fleet of foot and tall of size ; 
We can show the marks he made 
When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd; 
You shall see him brought to bay; 
'Waken, lords and ladies gay.' 

Louder, louder chant the lay, 

AVaken, lords and ladies gay! 

Tell them youth and mirth and glee 

Run a course as well as we; 

Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk, 

Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk? 

Think of this, and rise with day, 

Gentle lords and ladies gay! 



140 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

HYMN TO THE VIRGIN 

Walter Scott 
Ave Maria! maiden mild! 

Listen to a maiden's prayer! 
Thou canst hear though from the wild. 

Thou canst save amid despair. 
Safe may we sleep beneath thy care. 

Though banished, outcast, and reviled — 
Maiden! hear a maiden's prayer! 

Mother, hear a suppliant child! 

Ave Maria! 

Ave Maria! undefiled! 

The flinty couch we now must share, 
Shall seem with down of eider piled, 

If thy protection hover there. 
The murky cavern's heavy air 

Shall breathe of balm, if thou hast smiled. 
Then, Maiden ! hear a maiden's prayer ; 

Mother, list a suppliant child! 

Ave Maria! 

Avp Maria! Stainless styled! 

Foul demons of the earth and air. 
From this their wonted haunt exiled, 

Shall flee before thy presence fair. 
We bow us to our lot and care. 

Beneath thy guidance reconciled ; 
Hear for a maid a maiden's prayer. 

And for a father hear a child! 

Ave Maria! 



A PROPHECY! 
Canon Patrick A. Sheehan 

Caxon- Patrick Sheehan (b. 1852, Mallow, Ireland — d. 1913) came 
suddenly into literary fame through the publication of My Neu> Curate, 
a novel dealin? with life among the poor in Ireland. The old pastor, 
known familiarly as Daddy Dan, is one of the most charming creations 
of fiction. He wrote several other novels, excellent for their dramatic 
power and delineation of character, among which are. The Triumph of 
Failure, Luke Delmege, The Blindness of Dr. Gray, The Spoiled Priest, 
Glenanaar, and Lisheen. Cithara Mea, Under the Cedars and Stars, and 

1 Reprinted by permission of Marlier Publishing Company, Boston, 
Mass. 



LYRIC POEMS 141 

Pnvt'rria contain reveries, sketches, and poems. Dr. Barry says of him: 
■'He writes in a language always touching, often exquisite ; and deeper 
than all the fine qualities which become an eloquent style is the austere, 
kindly imaginative mood, Celtic and none other, that had seemed to be 
falling out of a Avorld unworthy of it." 

O Ireland, dark-hooded in sea-fog and mist 

And thy feet lapped around by the pitiless sea, 

And thy harpstrings, broken and trailed in the wind, 

And thy fangiess watch-hound, looking afar; 

The white of thy forehead is smitten with signs, 

Not the seals of the quick, as thy father Phoenician bore, 

But dark cicatrized with the time wounds and pain, 

Which fester, but gleam with a light and a hope, 

Who speaketh of thee? 

Flotsam and waif^ on Time's dreary sea, 
In faded gold the mariners read afar 
Thy name, and think of old-time legendaries, 
.But deem thee unworthy to pick up or save; 
Derelict- of Ocean; its tumultuous throngs, 
Shuttles that weave betwixt the old and new. 
Weaving the warp and woof of mighty empires. 
Thou alone untouched, as plague-stricken. 

Who careth for thee? 

Gray, dead hands point from out thy well-filled graves; 
Stately thy turrets that tremble not nor break; 
Though lichened crosses lean with weight of years 
And stretch them listless through the dust-strewn gi-ass. 
And thou a leaf from the black-lettered past 
Of vanished chivalry, swiftly vanished faiths; 
But, for it hurts the eye to study thee. 
The soul to watch thy illustrations dread. 

Men turn from thee. 

Wizards in thy valleys, ghosts in thy lofty towers, 
Gray keeps^ o'erhanging lonely, inky lakes; 
Spirits clank up the green and granite stairs 
That lead from seawash to enchanted moat. 
Art thou enchanted? Smitten into stone 
By some fell wizard in a far-off time? 



^Flotsam and waif: Stray property floating about on the ocean. See 
flotsam, jetsam, and ligan, in the dictionary. 

'' Derelict : One Avho is deserted. An abandoned vessel floating about 
on the ocean. 

^ Keeps : Strong towers in a medieval castle. 



142 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

And the puissant word that melts or wakes 
From gloomy trance and staring impotence, . 

Who'll speak to thee? 

Are thy transgressions wreathed round thy head? 
Do they come up and fall upon thy neck? 
Hath God poured out His fury like to fire? 
And set thee in dark places, like the dead? 
Wounded to death, like some poor, timorous thing, 
Seekest tliou sepulchres of slime and dust 
To hide thy head, and nurse thy mortal hurt, 
And let thy memory pass from living men 

Who shudder at thee? 

And yet one child of thine will prophesy, 
Not smitten Avith a pythoness's rage. 
But watching the unrolling of the scroll, 
That Time, God's child, is stealing from God's hand ; 
Thou, the Elect, for thou hast passed through fire, 
Thou, the encrowned, for thou hast tasted woe, 
Thou shalt yet speak, and all the world will hear; 
And all, with foreheads drooped and downcast eyes. 
Shall haste to thy beck, SibyP of the Seas, 

And worship thee. 

* Sibyl : A prophetess. 



THE CLOUD 
Percy B. Shelley 

PKRrv BvssHE Shelley (b. 1792, Sussex, Enpland — d. 1822), one 
of the crentest lyric poets, was expelled from Oxford for his Defence of 
Atheism. He had not qnite reached his thirty-first birthday, when he was 
drowned by the capsizing of his boat in the gulf of Spezzia in Italy. 
His poems fill a laree volume. "If he had lived to ripened age in the 
maturity of his unrivaled gifts, he might have occupied a place beside 
Milton or Shakespeare, for his imagination belonged to the highest order 
nud he had a gift of language equal to any emergency." — Sheron. Francis 
Thompson's essay on Shelley in his Essays in Criticism has been pro- 
nounced by ^Matthew Arnold "the most remarkable contribution to Eng- 
lish pure-letters in the last quarter century." 

"There are others, such as 'To the Skylark' and 'The Cloud' which 
in the opinion of many critics bear a purer poetical stamp than any other 
of his prodiictions. They were Avritten as his mind prompted, listening to 
the carol of the bird, aloft in the azure sky of Italy, or marking the 
cloud as it sped across the heavens, while he floated in his boat on the 
Thames." — Mrs. Slielley. 

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers. 
From the seas and the streams; 




Percy Bysshe Shelley 



LYRIC POEMS 143 

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 

In their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 

The sweet buds every one, 
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under, 
And then again I dissolve it in rain, 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below, 

And their great pines groan aghast; 
And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers. 

Lightning, my pilot sits. 
In a cavern under, is fettered the thunder, 

It struggles and howls by fits; 
Over earth and ocean with gentle motion. 

This pilot is guiding me. 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea ; 
Over the rills and the crags and the hills. 

Over the lakes and the plains. 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, 

The Spirit he loves remains; ■ 

And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes. 

And his burning plumes outspread. 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,^ 

When the morning-star shines dead. 
As on the jag of a mountain crag, 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings. 
An eagle alit one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, 

Its ardors of rest and of love. 
And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above. 



^ Rack : Thin or broken clouds. 



144 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

With wino-s folded I rest, on mine airy nest, 
As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden, with white fife laden, 

Whom mortals call the moon, 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, 

By the midnight breezes strewn; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 

Which only the angels hear, 
May have broken the woof- of my tent's thin roof. 

The stars peep behind her and peer; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 

Like a swarm of golden bees. 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas. 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, 

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape. 

Over a torrent sea. 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof. 

The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch through which I march, 

With hurricane, fire, and snow, 
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair. 

Is the million-colored bow; 
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove. 

While the moist earth was laughing below. 

I am the daughter of earth and water, 

And the nursling of the sky: 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; 

I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, Avhen with never a stain. 

The pavilion of heaven is bare. 
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams. 

Build up the blue dome of air. 



Woof: The cross-threads of a woven fabric. 



LYRIC POEMS 145 

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,^, 

And out of the caverns of rain, 
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, 

I arise and unbuild it again. 



^Cenotaph: An empty tomb. Originally cenotaphs were erected to 
those drowned at sea, killed in battle, etc., whose bodies were not recov- 
ered; here, "the blue dome of air." 



TO THE NIGHT 
Percy B. Shelley 

Swiftly walk o'er the w^estern wave, 

Spirit of Night! 
Out of the misty eastern cave. 
Where, all the long and lone daylight, 
Thou Avovest dreams of joy and fear, 
Which make thee terrible and dear, 

Swift be thy flight! 

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray. 

Star-inwrought ; 
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day, 
Kiss her until she be wearied out: 
Then Avander o'er city and sea and land, 
Touching all with thine opiate wand — 

Come, long-sought! 

When I arose and saw the dawn, 

I sigh'd for thee ; 
When light rode high, and the dew w^as gone. 
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree. 
And the weary Day turn'd to his rest 
Lingering like an unloved guest, 

I sigh'd for thee. 

Thy brother, Death, came and cried, 

Wouldst thou me? 
Thy sweet child, Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 
Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee, 
Shall I nestle near thy side? 
Wouldst thou me? — And I replied 

No, not thee! 



146 LOYOLA BOOK OF \'ERSE 

Death will come when thou art dead, 

Soon, too soon — 
Sleep will come when thou art fled; 
Of neither would I ask the boon 
I ask of thee, beloved Night — 
Swift be thine approaching flight, 
Come soon, soon! 



TO A SKYLARK 
Percy B. Shelley 

"It was on a beautiful summer evening, while wandering among the 
lanes, whose myrtle hedges were the bowers of the butterflies, that we 
heard the caroling of the skylark, which inspired one of the most beautiful 
of his poems." — Mrs. Shelley. 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit! 

Bird thou never wert, 
That from heaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

Higher still and higher, 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire; 

The blue deep thou wingest. 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun, 
O'er which clouds are brightening, 
Thou dost float and run; 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 

The pale purple even 

Melts around thy flight; 
Like a star of heaven, 
In the broad daylight 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. 

Keen as are the arrows 

Of that silver sphere. 
Whose intense lamp narrows 

In the white dawn clear, 
Until we ' hardly see, we feel that it is there. 



LYRIC POEMS 147 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud. 
As, when night is bare, 
From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. 

What thou art we know not; 

What ii> most like thee? 
From rainbow clouds there flow not 
Drops so bright to see. 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought. 
Singing hymns unbidden, 

Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: 

Like a high-born maiden 

In a palace tower, 
Soothing her love-laden 
Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: 

Like a glow- worm golden 

In a dell of dew, 
Scattering unbeholden^ 

Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view : 

Like a rose embowered 

In its own green leaves. 
By warm winds deflowered. 

Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. 

Sound of vernal showers 

On the twinkling grass, 
Rain-awakened flowers, 

All that ever was 
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 



^ Vnbeholden : Freely, gratuitously. 



148 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

Teach ns, sprite or bird, 

What sweet thoughts are thine: 
I have never heard 

Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 

Chorus hymeneal,^ 

Or triumphal chant, 
Matched with thine Avould be all 
But an empty vaunt, — 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 

What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain? 
What fields, or waves, or mountains? 

What shapes of sky or plain? 
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? 

With th}^ clear keen joyance 

Languor cannot be: 
Shadow of annoyance 
Never came near thee : 
Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 

Waking or asleep. 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 

Than we mortals dream. 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crj^stal stream? 

We look before and after. 

And jDine for what is not: 
Our sincerest laughter 
With some pain is fraught; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 

Yet if we could scorn 

Hate, and pride, and fear; 
If we were things born 
Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 

Better than all measures 
Of delightful sound. 



^Chorus hymeneal: Wedding chorus. 



LYRIC POEMS 149 

Better than all treasures 
That in books are found, 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! 

Teach me half the gladness • 
That thy brain must know, 
Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow, 
The world should listen then, as I am listening now. 



THE BURNING BABE 

Robert Southwell, S. J. 

Robert Southwell, (b. 1562, Norfolk, England — d. 1595) was a 
JesTiit missionary in England during the persecution of the Catholics 
under Elizabeth. He was captured, put in prison for three years, and 
repeatedly tortured on the rack. A false charge of treason was brought 
against him and, though no evidence was found, he was executed. Most 
of Southwell's lyrics deal with religious and moral subjects. Ben Johnson 
was a great admirer of the martyr's work and expressed high admiration 
for The Burninr/ Babe. Southwell wrote very fine prose, his two best 
works being Triumph Over Death, and Mary Magdalene's Tears. 

As I in hoary winter's night 

Stood shivering in the snow, 
Surprised I was with sudden heat. 

Which made my heart to glow; 

And lifting up a fearful eye 

To view what tire was near, 
A pretty Babe, all burning bright, 

Did in the air appear; 

Who, scorched with excessive heat. 

Such floods of tears did shed. 
As though His floods should quench His flames, 

Which with His tears were bred. 

"Alas!" quoth He, "but newly born. 

In fiery heats, I fry,^ 
Yet none approach to warm their hearts 

Or feel my heart, but I; 

My faultless breast the furnace is. 
The fuel, wounding thorns; 



^ Fry : "To burn," an Elizabethian meaning that it has since lost. 



150 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, 
The ashes, shame and scorns. 

The fuel Justice layeth on. 
And Mercy blows th^ coals, 

The metal in this furnace wrought 
Are men's defiled souls. 

For which, as now on fire I am, 
To work them to their good, 

" So will I melt into a bath, 
To wash them in My blood." 

With this He vanished out of sight, 

And swiftly shrunk away. 
And straight I called unto my mind 

That it A\'as Christmas Day. 



CHORUS FROM 'ATALANTA' 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 

Algernon Charles Swinburne (b. 1837, London — d. 1900), a 
passionate and melodious singer, graduated from Oxford, travelled on the 
Continent, and returned to become associated whh Morris and Rossetti. 
He wrote The Queen Mother, Atalanta in Calydon, Poems and Ballads, 
A Century of Roundels, Studies in English Poets, etc. Swinburne re- 
sembles Shelley in his passion of hate and love. "He is an original 
singer, passionate and vehement, defiant of environment, sensuous, un- 
christian, but marshalling words as no one before him, inventing new 
rhyme forms and breathing unwonted beauty into the old. The music 
of his Avords has oftentimes carried him into sounding phrases void of 
meanins;. There is, in fact, a jnarked poverty of thought in the poetry 
of Swinburne." — Jenkins. 

Wben the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, 
The Mother of IMonths^ in meadow or plain 

Fills the shadows and windy places 
With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; 

And the brown bright nightingale- amorous 

Is half assuaged for Itylus, 

For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces. 
The tongueless vigil and all the pain. 



^Mother of Months: Artemis, goddess of the moon, and of the chase. 

'And the brown bright, etc. — vigil and all the pain; King Tereus, 
of Thrace, pretending that his wife, Procne, was dead, married her sister, 
Philomela ; when Philomela discovered the truth, he cut out her tongue, 
but she wove the story into a robe and sent it to Procne ; the sisters then 
took revenge upon Tereus by serving up to him at table Itys (Itylus is 
the diminutive form), son of Tereus and Procne; the gods finally changed 
all four into birds, Philomela becoming a nightingale, and Procne a 
swallow. 



LYRIC POEMS 151 

Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers, 

Maiden most perfect, lady of light, 
With a noise of winds and many rivers, 

With a clamor of waters and with might; 
Bind on thy sandals, thou most fleet. 
Over the splendor and speed of thy feet; 
For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers. 

Round the feet of the da}?" and the feet of the night. 

AVhere shall we fi:nd her, how shall we sing to her, 
Fold our hands round her knees, and cling? 

that man's heart were as fire and could spring to her, 
Fire, or the strength of tlie streams that spring! 

For the stars and the winds are unto her 

As raiment, as songs of the harp-player; 

For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her, 
And the southwest-wind and the west-wind sing. 

The full streams feed on flower of rushes. 

Ripe grasses trammel a traveling foot. 
The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes 

From leaf to flower and flower to fruit; 
And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire. 
And the oat is heard above the lyre, 
And the hoofed heel of a satyr^ crushes 

The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root. 

And Pan"* by noon and Bacchus* by night, 

Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid, 
Follows with dancing and fllls with delight 

The Maenad and the Bassarid;^ 
And soft as lips that laugh and hide. 
The laughing leaves of the trees divide, 
And screen from seeing and leave in sight 

The god pursuing, the maiden hid. 

The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's^ hair "» 
Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes; 



3 Satyr : A woodland deity with goat-like ears, pug-nose, short tail, 
and budding horns. 

* Pan : A woodland spirit, inventor of the reed-pipe. Bacchus, — The 
Roman god of wine. 

^ The Maenad and the Bassarid : Bacchantes, or worshipers of Bac- 
chus. 

^Bacchanal: A drunken reveler, — a votary of Bacchus. 



152 LOVOLA BOOK OF ^^RSE 

The wild vine slipping down leaves bare 
Her bright breast shortening into sighs; 
The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, 
But the berried ivy catches and cleaves 
To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare, 
The wolf that follows, the faun^ that flies. 



^ Faun : A deity of the woods, half-human, with pointed ears and 
goat's feet. 



THE SALT OF THE EARTH 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 

If childhood were not in the world, 
But only men and women grown; 

No baby-locks in tendrils curled, 
No baby-blossoms blown; 

Though men were stronger, women fairer. 
And nearer all delights in reach, 

And verse and music uttered rarer 
Tones of more godlike speech; 

Though the utmost life of life's best hours 
Found, as it cannot now find, words; 

Though desert sands were sweet as flowers 
And flowers could sing like birds, 

But children never heard them, never 
They felt a child's foot leap and run, — 

This were a drearier star than ever 
Yet looked upon the sun. 



CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS^ 
John B. Tabb 

Rev. JoH^' Banister Tabb (b. 1845, A^irginia — d. 1909), a convert, 
studied for the priesthood and taught in St. Charles College, EUicot City, 
Maryland. A lyric poet of great ability. Father Tabb wrote on a variety 
of themes, religion, nature, literature, etc. His verses are conspicuous 
for their brevity as well as their music and striking imagery. 



^ From Poems by Rev. John B. Tabb, published by Small, Maynard and 
Company. Reprinted with permission. 



LYRIC POEMS 153 

With faith unshadowed by the night, 

Undazzled by the day, 
With hope that plumed thee for the flight, 

And courage to assay, 
God sent thee from the crowded ark, 

Christ-bearer, like the dove, 
To find, o'er sundering waters dark. 

New lands for conquering Love. 



FAME 

John B. Tabb 
Their noonday never knows 
What names immortal are; 
'Tis night alone that shows 
How star surpasseth star. 



FATHER DAMIENi 

John B. Tabb 
God, the cleanest offering 
Of tainted earth below, 
Unblushing to Thy feet we bring — 
^^A leper white as snowF' 



BKEAK, BREAK, BREAK^ 

Alfred Tennyson 
Break, break, break. 

On thy cold gray stones, sea! 
And I woidd that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

well for the fisherman's, boy 

That he shouts with his sister at play! 



^Father Damicn (1840-1888), the "Hero of Molokai," famous Belgian 
missionary, spent fifteen years toiling among the lepers of Molokai, Hawaii, 
finally contracting leprosy and dying of it. See Robert Lonis Stevenson's 
"Open Letter to Dr. Hyde" in wliich he defends Damien from the false 
accusations of the Rev. Dr. Hyde. 

- This poem was written in memory of Arthur Hallam, Tennyson's 
dearest friend, whose sudden death was a crushing blow to the poet. 



154 LOYOLA BOOK OF ^TERSE 

well for the sailor lad 

That he sings in his boat on the bay! 

And the stately ships go on 

To their haven under the hill; 
But for the touch of a vanished hand, 

And the sound of a voice that is still! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, sea! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 



THE BROOK 

Alfred Tennyson 

I come from haunts of coot^ and hern,^ 

I make a sudden sally. 
And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down, 

Or slip between the ridges, 
By twenty thorps,^ a little town, 

And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip's* farm I flow 

To join the brimming river; 
For men may come and men may go. 

But I go on forever. 

I chatter over stony ways, 

In little sharps and trebles, 
I bubble into eddying bays, 

I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 
By many a field and fallow, 



^ Coot : An aquatic bird. 
- Hern : A long-legged wading bird. 
^Thorps: Villages. 

* Philip is a character in the narrative poem, The Brook, from wliich 
this lyric is taken. 



LYRIC POEMS 155 



And many a fairy foreland^ set 
With willow-weed and mallow.^ 

I chatter, chatter as I flow 
To join the brimming river; 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 

I wind about, and in and out, 
With here a blossom sailing, 

With here and there a lusty trout, 
And here and there a grayling/ 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel 
With many a silver waterbreak 

Above the golden gravel. 

And draw them all along, and flow 
To join the brimming river; 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 

I slide by hazel covers, 
I move the svv^eet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance. 
Among my skimming swallows, 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows, 

I murmur under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses, 
I linger by my shingly^ bars, 

I loiter round my cresses. 

And out again I curve and flow 
To join the brimming river; 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 



^ Fairy foreland: A small projecting point of land. 

* Mallow : A trailing weed. 
^ Grayling : A small fish. 

* Shingle : Rounded, water-worn bits of stone, coarser than gravel. 



156 LOYOLA BOOK OF ^^:RSE 

CLARIBEL 
A Melody 

Alfred Tennyson 

Where Claribel low-lieth 
The breezes pause and die. 
Letting the rose-leaves fall; 
But the solemn oak-tree sigheth, 
Thick-leaved, ambrosial, 
With an ancient melody 
Of an inward agony. 
Where Claribel low-lieth. 

At eve the beetle boometh 

Athwart the thicket lone; 
At noon the wild bee hummeth 

About the mossed headstone; 
At midnight the moon cometh, 

And looketh down alone. 
Her song the lintwhite swelleth, 
The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth, 

The callow throstle lispeth. 
The slumbrous wave outwelleth, 

The babbling runnel crispeth, 
The hollow grot replieth, 
"\Miore Claribel low-lieth. 

BUGLE SONG 
Alfred Tennyson 

This poem was inspired by the echoes on the lake at Killarney 
during Tennysons visit there in 1847. "When I was there," said Tenny- 
son, "I heard a bugle blown beneath the "Eagle's Nest," and eight distinct 
echoes."' 

The splendour falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story; 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying; 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

hark, hear! how thin and clear. 
And thinner, clearer, farther going! 



LYRIC POEMS 157 

^weet and far from cliff and scar,i 
The horns of Elf land- faintly blowing! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying; 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field or river; 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying; 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 

^Scar: A bare rock standing alone. 

2 Elfland : The supposed home of the elves ; fairyland. 



TITHONUS 
Alfred Tennyson 

The poem is a dramatic monolog by Tithonus, the husband of Eos 
(Dawn). 

"Aurora, goddess of the dawn, fell in love with Tithonus, son of 
the King of Troy. She stole him away, and prevailed upon Jupiter te 
grant him immortality; but forgetting to have youth joined in the gift, 
after some time she discovered that he was growing old. When his hair 
was white she left his society. In time he lost the power of using his 
limbs. Finally she turned him into a grasshopper." — Gayley'a Classic 
Myths. 

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, 

The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, 

Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath. 

And after many a summer dies the swan.^ 

Me only cruel immortality 

Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms. 

Here at the quiet limit of the world, 

A white-hair'd shadow roaming like a dream 

The ever-silent spaces of the East, 

Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn. 

Alas ! for this gray shadow, once a man — 
So glorious in his beauty and thy choice, 
Who madest him thy chosen, that he seem'd 
To his great heart none other than a God! 
I ask'd thee, 'Give me immortality.' 
Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile. 
Like wealthy men who care not how they give. 



Swan : Swans have lived to the age of fifty. 



158 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

But thy strong Hours- indignant work'd their wills, 

And beat me down and marr'd and wasted me, 

And tho' they could not end me, left me maim'd 

To dwell in presence of immortal youth, 

Immortal age beside immortal youth, 

And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love, 

Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even now, 

Close over us, the silver star,^ thy guide, 

Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears* 

To hear me ? Let me go : take back thy gift : 

Why should a man desire in anj'^ way 

To vary from the kindly race of men, 

Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance 

Where all should pause, as is most meet for all? 

A soft air fans the cloud apart : there comes 
A glimpse of that d^rk world where I was born. 
Once more the old mj^sterious glimmer steals 
From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure, 
And bosom beating with a heart renew'd. 
Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the gloom, 
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine. 
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team^ 
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise. 
And shake the darkness from their loosen'd manes, 
And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. 

Lo ! ever thus thou growest beautiful 
In silence, then before thine answer given 
Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek. 

Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears. 
And make me tremble lest a saying learnt. 
In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true? 
'The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.' 

Ay me ! ay me ! with Avhat another heart 
In days far-off, and with what other eyes 
I used to watch — if I be he that watch'd — 



"^ Hoiin; : The Hours fire goddesses, attendants of Dawn, who cause 
al] things to come into being, ripen, and decay 

^Silver star: The morning star. 

* Eyes that fill with tears : The grief ascribed to Dawn by Tennyson 
JB not in agreement with the classical story. 

^Team: The team of horses that drew Dawns chariot up to Olympus 
to proclaim the coming of the day. 



LYRIC POEMS 159 

The lucid outline forming round thee; saw 
The dim curls kindle into sunny rings; 
Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood 
Glow with the glow that slowly crimson'd all 
Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay, 
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm 
With kisses balmier than half-opening buds 
Of April, and could hear the lips that kiss'd 
Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet, 
Like that strange song I heard Apollo^ sing, 
While Ilion like a mist rose into toAvers. 

Yet hold me not for ever in thine East: 
How can my nature longer mix with thine? 
Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold 
Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet 
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam 
Floats up from those dim fields about the homes 
Of happy men that have the power to die. 
And grassy barrows^ of the happier dead. 
Release me, and restore me to the ground; 
Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave: 
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn; 
I, earth in earth, forget these empty courts. 
And thee returning on thv silver wheels. 



^Apollo: The god of music, built the Avails of Troy for King Laome 
don, father of Tithonus, to the music of his lyre. 
''Barrows: Burial mounds. 



TEARS, IDLE TEARS 

(From The Princess) 
Alfred Tennyson 

"The passion of the past, the abiding in the transient, was expressed 
in Tears, which was written in the yellow autumn-tide at Tintern Abbey, 
full for me of its bygone memories. Not real woe . . . rather the 
yearning that young people occasionally experience for that which seems 
to have passed away from them forever." — Tennyson. 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean. 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes. 
In looking on the happy autumn fields. 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 



160 liOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, 
That brings our friends up from the underworld, 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge: 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark sunmier dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square : 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

Dear as remembered kisses after death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned 
On lips that are for others: deep as love. 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret: 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more. 



ULYSSES 
Alfred Tennyson 

In this lofty monolog, Tennyson (following Dante's Divine Oomedy 
and not Homer's Odyssey) represents Ulysses as having returned to Ithaca, 
the rocky island kingdom of which he was the ruler, after ten years 
fighting with the Greeks "on the ringing plains of windy Troy" and ten 
years more of wanderings. Even the love of his wife, Penelope, and his 
son, Telemachiis, cannot overcome the love of adventure in Ulysses' 
heart. So ho takes his mariners, "souls that have toiled, and wrought, 
and thought with him," embarks again in his ship and steers out on the 
"dark broad seas," — "to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield." 

It little profits that an idle king. 
By this still hearth,^ among these barren crags, 
Match'd with an aged wife, I meet and dole 
Unequal laws unto a savage race. 
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. 
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink 
Life to the lees. All times I have enjoy'd 
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those 
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when 
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades^ 
Vext the dim sea. I am become a name; 



^ By this still hearth: Tennyson takes Ithaca, Ulysses' home, as the 
scene of the poem. 

•Rainy Hyades : A literal translation of "pluvias Hyades" (Virgil's 
Aeveid B. I. 744). The Hyades are .seven stars in the constellation 
Taurus, which were supposed to bring rain. 



LYRIC POEMS 161 

For always roaming with a hungry heart 

Much have I seen and known, — cities of men 

And manners, climates, councils, governments, 

Myself not least, but honor'd of them all; 

And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 

I am a part of all that I have met; 

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' 

Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades 

For ever and for ever when I move. 

How dull it is to pause, to make an end. 

To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! 

As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life 

Were all too little, and of one to me 

Little remains; but every hour is saved 

From that eternal silence, something more, 

A bringer of new things; and vile it were 

For some three suns to store and hoard myself. 

And this gray spirit yearning in desire 

To follow knowledge like a sinking star. 

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 

This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild 
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 
In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods. 
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: 
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, 
Souls that have toiPd, and wrought, and thought with me — 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 
Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old; 
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil; 
Death closes all: but something ere the end. 
Some work of noble note may yet be done. 
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 



162 LOYOLA BOOK OF \^RSE 

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: 

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep 

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 

'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 

Push off, and sitting well in order smite 

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds 

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 

Of all the western stars,^ until I die. 

It may be that the gulfs will w^ash us down: 

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,* 

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' 

We are not now that strength which in old days 

Moved earth and heaven ; that which we are, we are, — 

One equal temper of heroic hearts, 

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 



8 The baths of all the western stars : Where the western stars sink 
into the sea. 

* Happy Isles : The Isles of the blessed, a fabled place where the 
inhabitants lived iu perfect happiness, were much sought by the ancients. 
The Greeks thoiig-ht they were in the Atlantic Ocean, somewhere off the 
co.^st of Africa. 



CROSSING THE BAR 
Alfred Tennyson 

"Written in father's eighty-first year, on a day in October when we 
came from Aldworth to Farringford. Before • reaching Farringford lie 
had the moaning of the bar in his mind, and after dinner he showed me 
this poem written out. I said, 'That is the crown of your life's work.' 
He answered, 'It came in a moment.' He explained the 'Pilot' as 'That 
Divine and Unseen Who is always guiding us.' A few days before my 
father's death he said to me : 'Mind you put Grossing the Bar at the 
end of all editions of my poems.' " — Memoir, II, 366. 

Sunset and evening star, 

And one clear call for me! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar, 

When I put out to sea. 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 

Too full for sound and foam. 
When that which drew from out the boundless deep 

Turns asain home. 



L\RIC POEMS 163 

Twilight and evening bell, 

And after that the dark! 
And maj^ there be no sadness of farewell, 

When I embark; 

For tho'' from out our bourne of Time and Place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

When I have crost the bar. 



DAISY 



Francis Thompson 

Fbancis Thompson (b. 1859, Durham, England — d. London, 1907), 
the son of a physician, and convert to the church, studied medicine but 
found it repellent, so drifted to London to make literature his life-work. 
He was unsuccessful, and wandered about penniless and starving until 
Wilfred Meynell befriended him. His first volume of poems was a triumph 
and received glowing praise from Browning and the critics, but his weak- 
ness for opium prevented him from using his talent to the utmost. He 
fell into consumption and was cared for by the Meynell family and the 
Capuchin monks until his death. "He was a pure and gentle spirit, 
despite his weakness of character, and was of mature judgment in the 
ideal world ; but in the real world, he was almost a child, and said of 
himself that in the next world he should be sought for in the nurseries 
of heaven." Thompson is undoubtedly the best of the modern lyric poets. 
"In matter of technique, he is original and daring. He has a strong and 
swift imagination, like Shelley's, and deep feeling, and often a spirituality 
bordering on mysticism. His strong Catholic faith and deep sense of 
gratitxide to the Meynells are the inspiration of his best verse. In prose, 
he has, in his great essay on Shelley, 'made the most notable contribution 
to English pure letters in the past quarter century.' His Life of St. 
Ignatius Loyola is redolent of the saint's spirit and is charming alike in 
manner and in matter." — Jenkins. 

Where the thistle lifts a purple crown 

Six foot out of the turf, 
And the harebell shakes on the windy hill — 

breath of the distant surf! 

The hills look over on tbe South, 

And southward dreams the sea; 
And with the sea-breeze hand in hand 

Came innocence and she. 

Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry 

Red for the gatherer springs, 
Two children did we stray and talk 

Wise, idle, childish things. 



164 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

She listened with big-lipped surprise, 
Breast-deep mid jfiower and spine: 

Her skin was like a grape whose veins 
Run snow instead of wine. 

She knew not those sweet words she sp'ake, 
Nor knew her own sweet way; 

But there's never a bird, so sweet a song 
Thronged in whose throat that day. 

Oh, there were flowers in Storrington 
On the turf and on the spray; 

But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills 
Was the Daisy-flower that day! 

Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face. 

She gave me tokens three: 
A look, a word of her winsome mouth, 

And a wild raspberry. 

A berry red, a guileless look, 
A still word, — strings of sand ! 

And yet they made my wild, wild heart 
Fly down to her little hand. 

For standing artless as the air, 
^ And candid as the skies, 

She took the berries with her hand. 
And the love with her sweet eyes. 

The fairest things have fleetest end, 
Their scent survives their close: 

But the rose's scent is bitterness 
To him that loved the rose. 

She looked a little wistfully. 
Then went her sunshine way: 

The sea's eye had a mist on it, 
And the leaves fell from the day. 

She went her unremembering way, 

She went and left in me 
The pangs of all the partings gone, 

And partings yet to be. 



LYRIC POEMS 165 



She left me marvelling' why my soul 
Was sad that she was glad; 

At all the sadness in the sweet, 
The sweetness in the sad. 

Still, still, I seemed to see her, still 
Look up with soft replies, 

And take the berries with her hand. 
And the love w4th her lovely eyes. 

Nothing begins, and nothing ends. 
That is not paid with moan; 

For we are born in other's pain. 
And perish in our own. 



A DEAD ASTRONOMER 

(Stephen Perry, S. J.) 

Francis Thompson 

Starry amorist, starward gone, 
Thou art — what thou didst gaze upon! 
Passed through thy golden garden's bars. 
Thou seest the Gardener of the Stars. 

She, about whose mooned brows 
Seven stars make seven glows. 
Seven lights for seven woes; 
She, like thine own Galaxy, 
All lustres in one purity: — 
What said'st thou. Astronomer, 
When thou did'st discover herf 
When thy hand its tube let fall. 
Thou found'st the fairest Star of all! 



166 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

LILIUM REGIS 
Francis Thompson 

This poem, written before 1907, is strangely prophetic of the world- 
war which began in 1914, and of the spiritual revival that followed the 
war. Note especially the striking fulfillment of the thought expressed in 
the line "When the nations lie in blood, and their kings a broken brood." 

Lily of the King!^ low lies thy silver wing, 

And long has been the hour of thine unqueening; 

And thy scent of Paradise on the night-wind spills its sighs, 
Nor any take the secrets of its meaning. 

Lily of the King! I speak a heavy thing, 

patience, most sorrowful of daughters ! 

Lo, the hour is at liand for the troubling of the land, 
And red shall be the breaking of the waters. 

Sit fast upon thy stalk, when the blast shall with thee talk, 

With the mercies of the King for thine awning; 
And the Just understand that thine hour is at hand. 

Thine hour at hand with power in the dawning. 
When the nations lie in blood, and their kings a broken brood, 

Look up, most sorrowful of daughters! 
Lift up thy head and hark what sounds are in the dark, 

For His feet are coming to thee on the waters. 

Lily of the King! I shall not see, that sing, 

1 shall not see the hour of thy queening! 

But my Song shall see, and wake like a flower that dawn- 
winds shake. 

And sigh with joy the odours of its meaning. 
Lily of the King, remember then the thing 

That this dead mouth sang; and thy daughters, 
As they dance before His way, sing there on the Day 

What I sang when the Night was on the waters. 



^ Lily of the King : The Catholic Church. 



LYRIC POEMS 167 

LINES FOR A DRAWING OF OUR LADY OF 
THE NIGHT 

Francis Thompson 

This, could I paint my inward sight, 
This were Our Lady of the Night: 

She bears on her front's lueency 
The starlight of her purity: 

For as the white rays of that star 
The union of all colours are, 

She sums all virtues that may be 
In her sweet light of purity. 

The mantle which she holds on high 
Is the great mantle of the sky. 

Think, sick toiler, when the night 
Comes on thee, sad and infinite. 

Think, sometimes, 'tis our own lady 
Spreads her blue mantle over thee, 

And folds the earth, a wearied thing. 
Beneath its gentle shadowing; 

Then rest a little; and in sleep 
Forget to weep, forget to weep ! 



LOVE AND THE CHILD 

Francis Thompson 
"Why do you so clasp me, 

And draAv me to your knee? 
Forsooth, you do but chafe me, 

I pray you let me be : 
I will be loved but now and then 

When it liketh me !" 

So I heard a young child, 
A thwart child, a young child 

Rebellious against love's arms, 
Make its peevish cry. 



168 LOYOLA BOOK OF ^^i:RSE 

To the tender God I turn: — 
"Pardon, Love most High! 

For I think those arms were even Thine, 
And that child was even I." 



THE MAKING OF VIOLA^ 
Francis Thompson 



The Father of Heaven. 

Spin, daughter Mary, spin. 
Twirl your wheel with silver din; 
Spin, daughter Mary, spin. 
Spin a tress for Viola. 

Angels. 

Spin, Queen Mary, a 
Brown tress for Viola! 

II 
The Father of Heaven. 

Weave,hands angelica]. 
Weave a woof of flesh to pall — 
Weave, hands angelical — 
Flesh to pall our Viola. 

Angels. 

Weave, singing brothers, a 
Velvet flesh for Viola! 

Ill 

The Father of Heaven. 

Scoop, young Jesus, for her eyes. 
Wood-browned pools of Paradise — 
Young Jesus, for the eyes, 
I'or the eyes of Viola. 

Angels. 

Tint, Prince Jesus, a 
Dusked eye for Viola! 



1 Viola, the young daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Wilfred Meynell who 
had befriended Thompson in his poverty and hardships. 



LYRIC POEMS 169 



IV 

The Father of Heaven. 

Cast a star therein to drown, 
Like a torch in cavern brown, 
Sink a burning star to drown 
Whelmed in eyes of Viola. 

Angels. 

Lave, Prince Jesus, a 
Star in eves of Viola! 



The Father of Heaven. 

Breathe, Lord Paraclete, 
To a bubbled crystal meet — 
Breathe, Lord Paraclete — 
Crystal soul for Viola. 

Angels. 

Breathe, Regal Spirit, a 
Flashing soul for Viola! 

VI 

The Father of Heaven. 

Child-angels, from your wings 
Fall the roseal hoverings. 
Child-angels, from your ,wings, 
On the cheeks of Viola. 

Angels. 

Linger, rosy reflex, a 
Quenchless stain, on Viola! 

VII 

All things being accomplished, saith the Father of Heaven. 
Bear her down, and bearing, sing, 
Bear her down on spyless wing. 
Bear her down, and bearing, sing. 
With a sound of viola. 

Angels. 

Music as her name is, a 
Sweet sound of Viola! 



170 LOYOLA BOOK OF ^^RSE 

VIII 

Wheeling angels, past espial, 
Danced her down with sound of viol; 
Wheeling angels, past espial. 
Descanting on ^"Viola." 

Angels. 

Sing, in our footing, a 
Lovely lilt of "Viola!" 

IX 

Baby smiled, mother wailed, 
Earthward while the sweetling sailed; 
Mother smiled, baby wailed. 
When to earth came Viola. 

And her elders say: 

So soon have we taught you a 
Way to weep, poor Viola! 

X 

Smile, sweet baby, smile, — 
For you will have weeping-while; 
Native in your Heaven is smile, — 
But your weeping, Viola? 

Whence your smiles we know, but ah! 
Whence your weeping, Viola? — 
Our first gift to you is a 
Gift of tears, my Viola! 



LITTLE JESUS 

(Ex ore infantium, Deus, et lactentium perfecisti laudem}) 

Francis Thompson 

Little Jesus, wast Thou shy 
Once, and just so small as I? 
And what did it feel like to be 
Out of Heaven, and just like me? 
Didst Thou sometimes think of there, 
And ask where all the angels were? 



^ Out of the mouth of infants and of sucklings thou hast perfected 
praise. — Psalm VIII, 3. 



LYRIC POEMS 171 



I should think that I would cry 
For my house all made of sky; 
I would look about the air, 
And wonder where my angels were; 
And at wakin£' 'twould distress 



'& 



me — 



Not an angel there to dress me ! 

Hadst thou ever an}^ toys, 

Like us little girls and boys? 

And didst Thou play in Heaven with all 

The angels that were not too tall, 

With stars for marbles ? Did the thinss 

Play Can you see mef through their wings' 

And did Thy Mother let Thee spoil 

Thy robes, v/ith playing on our soil? 

How nice to have them always new 

In Heaven, because 'twas quite clean blue! 

Didst Thou kneel at night to pray, 

And didst Thou join Thy hands, this way? 

And did they tire sometimes, being young, 

And make the prayer seem very long? 

And dost Thou like it best, that we 

Should join our hands to pray to Thee? 

I used to think, before I knew. 

The prayer not said unless we do. 

And did Thy Mother at the night 

Kiss Thee, and fold the clothes in right? 

And didst Thou feel quite good in bed, 

Kissed, and sweet, and Thy prayers said? 

Thou canst not have forgotten all 

That it feels like to be small : 

And Thou know'st I cannot pray 

To thee in my father's way — 

When Thou wast so little, say, 

Couldst Thou talk Thy Father's way?— 

So, a little Child, come down 

And hear a child's tongue like Thy own; 

Take me* by the hand and walk, 

And listen to my baby-talk. 

To Thy Father show my prayer 

(He will look. Thou art so fair), 



172 LOYOLA BOOK OF ^'ERSE 

And say : "0 Father, I, Thy Son, 
Bring the prayer of a little one." 

And He will smile, that children's tongue 
Has not changed since Thou Mast young. 



AT NAZARETHi 
Thomas Walsh 

Thomas Walsh (b. 1875, Brooklyn, N. Y.), poet and critic, was 
educated at Georgetown University. He has written for most of the 
current magazines. At Nazareth is taken from his book, Prison Ships and 
Other Poems. 

Beyond the blackened embers of the earth 

The west withdra,ws the sinking flames of day; 
So ends the seventh annual of My birth — 

And see — a star, to taunt our brazier gray! — 
Dost thou remember how at times like these — 

Nay, mother, I was not too young to know — 
Thou wouldst go meekly down upon thy knees 

And opening wide our rustic coffer, show 
The Magi's offerings fondly treasured there; — 

The golden casket w^ith its store of stones 
And coins and amulets and ciphers rare; 

The incense lamps, the myrrh's be jeweled cones 
With wondrous hieroglj^phs engraven o'er. 

These wouldst thou lift into My baby hands 
Until my breast and arms could hold no more; 

Then wouldst thou pour the precious incense sands 
Upon our little fire, and all the room 

Grew white with clouds of perfume undefiled; 
Then wouldst thou prostrate thyself amid the gloom, 

Sweet mother, all alone before thy Child. 
To-night hast thou no incense for thy Son ? — 

The night wind finds our brazier black as death? — 
Nay, — do not kneel — here, here ^ly breast upon. 

The stars shall show the vapor of thy breath. 



^ Reprinted by permission of the author. 



LYRIC POEMS 173 

CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN l^ 

Walt Whitman 

Walt Whitman (b. 1819, Long Island, U. S. — d. 1892), the son 
of poor parents, read incessantly and educated himself sufficiently to 
teach school. His best known works are Leaves of Grass, Drum-Taps, 
November Boughs, Goodbye, Pochis and tSongs. Whitman discards rhyme 
and meter, which makes him a forerunner of the free-versifiers. "Never- 
theless his broken, irregular lines are often musical, and nearly always 
pleasant to the ear. He went several steps farther than Browning in 
asserting absolute freedom from classic laws."- — ^Slieran. 

Captain I my Captain! our fearful trip is done, 
The ship has weather'd ev^ery rack, the prize we sought is won, 
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting. 
While follow eyes the steady keeh the vessel grim and daring; 
But O heart I heart ! heart ! 
the bleeding drops of red, 

Where on the deck my Captain lies. 
Fallen cold and dead. 

Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells ; 

Rise up — for you the flag is flung— for you the bugle trills. 

For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths — for you the shores 

a-crowding, 
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; 
Here, Captain! dear father! 
This arm beneath your head ! 

It is some dream that on the deck 
You've fallen cold and dead. 

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, 
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will. 
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and 

done, 
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; 
Exult, shores, and ring, bells! 
But I, with mournful tread. 

Walk the deck my Captain lies. 
Fallen cold and dead. 



^O Captain! My Captain!: Written in memory of Abraham Lincoln. 



174 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 



TO THE CUCKOO 

William Wordsworth 

O blithe new-comer! I have heard, 
T hear thee, and rejoice. 

cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, 
Or but a wandering voice? 

AVhile I am lying on the grass 
Thy twofold shout I hear; 
From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
At once far off and near. 

Though babbling only to the vale 
Of sunshine and of flowers, 
Thou bringest unto me a tale 
Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the spring! 

Even yet thou are to me 

No bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mysterj^; 

The same'Avhoin in my schoolboy days 

1 listened to; that cry 

Which made me look a thousand ways 
In bush, and tree, and sky. 

To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods and on the green; 
And thou wert still a hope, a love — 
Still longed for, never seen. 

And I can listen to thee yet ; 
Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, till I do beget 
That golden time again. 

blessed bird! the earth we pace 
Again appears to be 
An unsubstantial faery place, 
That is fit home for thee! 



LYRIC POEMS 175 

LUCY 

William Wordsworth 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove; 
A maid whom there were none to praise, 

And very few to love. 

A violet by a mossy stone 

Half -hidden from the eye! 
Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be; 
But she is in her grave, and, oh, 

The difference to me! 



THE DAFFODILS 

William Wordsworth 

I wandered lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host, of golden daffodils ; 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the Milky Way, 
They stretched in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay: 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance. 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced, but they 

Outdid the sparkling waves in glee : 

A poet could not but be gay. 

In such a jocund company: 

I gazed and gazed, but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought. 



176 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSP: 

For oft, when on my eouch I lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood, 
They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude; 
And then my heart w^ith pleasure fills, 
And dances with the daffodils. 



A RAINBOW 

William Wordsworth 

My heart leaps up when I behold 

A rainbow in the sky; 
So was it when my life began; 
So is it now I am a man; 
So be it when I shall grow old, 

Or let me die! 
The Child is father of the Man; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 



SHE WAS A PHANTO:V[ OF DELIGHT 
William Wordsworth 

Wordsworth says: "The germ of this poem was four lines, com- 
posed as a part of the verses on the Highland Girl. Though beginning 
in this way, it was written from my heart, as is sufficiently obvious." 
The 'Phantom of Delight" is his wife. 

She was a phantom of delight 

When first she gleamed upon my sight; 

A lovely apparition, sent 

To be a moment's ornament; 

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; 

Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 

But all things else about her drawn 

From May-time and the cheerful dawn; 

A dancing shape, an image gay, 

To haunt, to startle, and wa^iay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A spirit, yet a woman too! 

Her household motions light and free. 



LYRIC POEMS 177 

And steps of virgin liberty; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet; 

A creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 

The very pulse of the machine; 

A being breathing thoughtful breath, 

A traveller between life and death; 

The reason firm, the temperate will. 

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; 

A perfect woman, nobly planned. 

To warn, to comfort, and command; 

And yet a spirit still, and bright 

With something of angelic light. 



TO A SKYLARK 

William Wordsworth 

Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! 
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? 
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? 
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will. 
Those quivering wings composed, that music still! 

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; 
A privacy of glorious light is thine. 
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 
Of harmony, with instinct more divine; 
Type of the wise, who soar but never roam, 
True to the kindred points of heaven and home. 



SONNETS 



SONNETS 181 



AT HIGH MASSi 
Robert Hugh Benson 

Robert Hugh Benson (b. 1871, London — d. 1914), son of the 
Archbishop of Canterbury, studied at Eton and Cambridge ; took Anglican 
orders but became a Catholic in 1903 and was ordained priest. He is 
one of our best Catholic novelists, and though he died at an early age, he 
has left us a large number of interesting books. He wrote By What 
Authority (his first and best novel), The King's Achievement, Lord of the 
World, Oddsfish, Loneliness?, The Necromancers, etc. He has left one 
volume of poems. 

Thou who hast made this world so wondrous fair; — 

The pomp of clouds; the glory of the sea; 

Music of water; song-birds' melody; 
The organ of Thy thunder in the air; 
Breath of the rose; and beauty everywhere — 

Lord, take this stately service done to Thee, 

The grave enactment of Thy Calvary 
In jewelled pomp and splendor pictured there! 

Lord, take the sounds and sights; the silk and gold; 
The white and scarlet; take the reverent grace 
Of ordered step; window and glowing wall — 

Prophet and Prelate, holy men of old; 
And teach us children of the Holy Place 

Who love Thy Courts, to love Thee best of all. 



THE CASTLE OF CHILLON 
Lord Byron 

Bonnivard, a Genevan patriot, was imprisoned in the Castle of 
Chillon on Lake Geneva by the Duke of Sa\oy. He was ultimately re- 
leased, but not until years of pacing to and fro had left traces of his 
steps upon the stone floor of the prison. 

Eternal Spirit of the chainless mind! 

Brightest in dimgeons. Liberty, thou art; 

For there thy habitation is the heart — 
The heart which love of thee alone can bind; 
And when thy sons to fetters are consigned, 

To fetters and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 

Their country conquers with their martyrdom. 
And Freedom's fame finds wing on every wind. 



^ From Poems by Robert Hugh Benson. Reprinted by permission, of 
publishers, P. J. Kenedy and Sons. 



182 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, 

And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod 

Until his very steps have left a trace, 

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 

By Bonnivard ! May none those marks efface ! 
For they appeal from tyranny to God. 



HAMILCAR BARCA^ 



Sir Roger Casement 

Sib Roger David Casement (b. 1864, Antrim, Ireland — hanged 
London, 1916) was English Consul to South- Vv'est Africa during the 
Boer War. He was made a knight in 1911. He devoted liis life to the 
cause of Irish freedom, and was hanged in connection with the Irish 
Rebellion of 1916. He became a Catholic while in prison. In this 
sonnet Roger Casement expresses his own passion for human freedom. 

Hamilcar Barca (Heb. bareJc, "lightning"), Carthaginian general 
and statesman, father of Hannibal, was born about 270 B. C. He dis- 
tinguished himself during the First Punic War in 247, when he took 
over the chief command in Sicily, which at this time was almost entirely 
in the hands of the Romans. Landing suddenly on the north-west of 
the island with a small mercenary force he seized a strong position on 
Mf. FJeircte (Monte Pelligrino, near the present city of Palermo which 
at that time was called Panormus) , and not only maintained himself 
against all attacks, but carried his raids as far as the coast of south 
Italy. In 244 he transferred his army to a similar position on the slopes 
of Mt. Eryx, from which he was able to lend help to the besieged garri- 
son in the city nearby. By a provision of the peace of 241 Hamilcar's 
unbeaten force was allowed to depart from Sicily without any token of 
submission. On returning to Africa his troops, which had been kept 
together by his personal authority and by the promise of good pay, DroKe 
out into • open mutiny when the rewards were withheld by Hamilcar's 
opponents among the aristocracy, Hanno being the leader of the opponents. 
After some time he led his army into Spain (called Iberia at that time) 
where he hoped to gain a new empire to compensate for the loss of Sicily, 
and to serve as basis for a campaign of vengeance against the Romans. — 
Ency. Brit. 

Thou that didst mark from Heircte's spacious hill 
The Roman spears, like mist, uprise each morn. 
Yet held, with Hesper's- shining point of scorn. 

Thy sword unsheathed above Panormus still; 

Thou that wert leagued with naught but thine own will, 
Eurythmic" vastness to that stronghold torn 
From foes above, below, where, tho forlorn 

Thou still hadst claws to cling and beak to kill — 



^ From Poems of the Irish Revolutionary Brotherhood, published by 
Small, Maynard and Company. Reprinted by permission of the publishers. 
2 Hesper : The evening star. 
^ Eurythmic: Harmonious, orderly. 



SONNETS 183 

Eag-le of Eryx — when the Aegatian* shoal 

Rolled westward all the hopes that Hanno wrecked, 
With mighty wing, unwearying, didst thou 
Seek far beyond the w^olf's grim protocol, 
Within the Iberian sunset faintly specked, 

A rock where Punic faith should bide its vow. 



NOX IGNATIANA 
James J. Daly, S. J. . 

When St. Ignatius was General of the Society of Jesus, residing at 
Roioe, he took great delight in gazing at the stars of heaven and was often 
heard to remark that earth appeared contemptible to him when he con- 
templated the stars. 

His vigil w^as with the stars; his eyes w^ere bright 
With radiance of them. Mystically slow 
Was their processional, while far below, 

Rome's quick and dead slept — fellows in the night. 

These very stars had marched in cryptic rite 
For Virgil in clear evenings long ago, 
Gliding, like motes, athwart the overflow 

Of splendor from immortal tides of Light. 

'^What is this ant-life on a sphere of sand 

That it must drive, with ant-like cares, my soul 
Than all the stars together more sublime?" 
So in the spacious night Ignatius planned 
His spacious morrow^s — centuries his scroll — 
Upon a background of Eternal Time. 



THE ROCK OF CASHEL 
Aubrey De Vere 

The "Rock of Cashel" in Tipperary, Ireland, is a limestone forma- 
tion about 300 feet high. On top are the ruins of a Gothic cathedral 
(12th century), castle, abbey, chapel, and round tower. 

Royal and saintly Cashel! I would gaze 

Upon the w^reck of the departed powers 

Not in the dewy light of matin hours. 
Nor in the meridian pomp of summer's blaze, 



* Aegatian shoal: In ancient geography the Aegates were a group of 
small islands west of Sicily. Near them was gained the Roman naval 
victory over the Carthaginians, 241 B. C. 



184 LOYOLA BOOK OF \'ERSE 

But at the close of dim Autumnal days, 

When the sun's parting giance, through slanting showers, 
Sheds o'er thy rock-throned battlements and towers 

Such awful gleams as brighten o'er Decay's 

Prophetic cheek. At such a time, methinks. 

There breathes from thy lone courts and voiceless aisles 

A melancholy moral, such as sinks 

On the lone traveller's heart, amid the piles 

Of vast Persepolis^ on her mountain stand. 

Or Thebes- half buried in the desert sand. 



THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET 
Leigh Hunt 

This sonnet was written in friendly rivalry with Keats. The subject 
was agreed on by both. Keats' sonnet began, "The poetry of earth is 
never dead," — a fine line but one unsuited to a theme so trivial. 

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass. 

Catching your heart up at the feel of June, 
Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon 

When even the bees lag at the summoning brass; 

And you, warm little housekeeper, who class 

With those who think the candles come too soon. 
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune, 

Nick the glad silent moments as they pass; 

sweet and tiny cousins, that belong. 
One to the fields, the other to the hearth. 

Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong 
At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth 

To ring in thoughtful ears this natural song — 
Indoors and out, summer and winter. Mirth. 



^ Persepolis : An ancient capital of Persia, once a city of splendor 
but now in ruins. 

-Thehes: The ancient capital of Upper Egj-pt. 



SONNETS 1 85 

ON READING CHAPMAN'S HOMER 
John Keats 

"We were put in possession of the Horner of Chapman, and to work 
we went, turning to some of the 'famousest' passages. One scene I coiild 
not fai3 to introduce to hiin — the sbipwreck of Ulysses, in the fifth book 
of the Odysseis, and I had the reward of one of his delighted stares, upon 
reading it. It was in the teeming wonder of tliis first introdiaction that, 
when I came down to breakfast the next morning, I found upon my table 
a letter Avith no other enclosure than his famous sonnet. We had parted 
at day-spring, yet he contrived that I should reoeiv-:> the poem from a 
distance of, may be, two miles, by ten o'clock." — Recollections of John 
Keats by Charles C. Clarke. 

Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, 
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; 
Round many western islands^ have I been 

Which bards in fealty- to Apollo hold. 

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 

That deei3-browed^ Homer ruled as his demesne : 
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: 

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 
When a new planet swims into his ken; 

Or like stout Cortez^ when Avith eagle eyes 
He stared at the Pacific,- — and all his men 

Looked at each other with a wild surmise, — 
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.^ 



^ Westei'ii Islands: Keats's reading was limited for the most part to 
the poets of England, the westernmost country of Europe, as Greece is the 
easternmost. 

- In fealty : This figure is taken from the feudal system ; Apollo is 
the emperor of the '"realms of gold,'' and the poets are his vassals. 

^ Deep-broived : Allusion to the overhanging brows and deep-set eyes 
of the familiar bust of Homer. 

*Cortez: Balboa, not Cortez, discovered the Pacific in 1513. Keats 
had read a history which gave the credit erroneously to Cortez. 

^ Darien : Isthmus of Panama. 



DIVINA COMMEDIA 

Hexry AVadsworth Longfellow 
Oft have I seen at some cathedral door 
A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat. 
Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet 
Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor 
Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er; 

Far off the noises of the world retreat; 



186 LOYOLA BOOK OF A^RSE 

The loud vociferations of the street 
Become an indistingnishable roar. 

So, as I enter here from day to day, 

And leave my burden at this monster gate, 

Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray, 
The tumult of the time disconsolate 

To inarticulate murmurs dies away, 

While the eternal ages watch and wait. 

ON HIS BLINDNESS 

John MiLTOisr 
When I consider how my light is spent 

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide. 
And that one talent which is death to hide. 
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 
To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
Mv true account, lest He returning chide : 
"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?" 
I fondly^ ask: but Patience, to prevent 

That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need 
Either man's work or His own gifts: who best 
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best : His state 

Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed, 
And post o'er land and ocean without rest; 
Thev also serve who onlv stand and wait." 



1 Fondly : Foolishly. 



MARQUETTE ON THE SHORES OF THE MISSISSIPPI 

On Seeing the Original Manuscript Map of the Mississippi 
Biver by its Discoverer, Father Marquette 

JOHX jEROIMn: ROOXEY^ 

Here, in the midnight of the solemn wood, 
He heard a roar as of a mighty wind. 
The onward rush of waters unconfined 

Tramplirig in legions thro' the solitude. 



'^John Jerome Rooney, author of many fugitive verses, is practising 
law in New York City. 



SONNETS 187 

Then lo! before him swept the conquering flood, 
Free as the freedom of the truth-strong mind 
Which hills of Doubt could neither hide nor bind, 

Which, all in vain, the valley mounds withstood! 

With glowing eye he saw the prancing tide 
With yellow mane rush onward thro' Mie night 
Into the vastness he had never trod: 
Nor dreamt of conquest of that kingdom wide 
As down the flood his spirit took its flight 
Seeking- the long-lost children of his God! 



SCORN NOT THE SONNET 
William Wordsworth 

Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, 
Mindless of its just honors: with this key 
Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the melody 

Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ;^ 

A thousand times this pipe did Tasso^ sound; 
Camoens^ soothed with it an exile's grief; 
The sonnet glittered, a gay myrtle leaf, 

Amid the cypress with which Dante* crowned 

His visionary brow; a glow-woim lamp, 

It cheered mild Spenser,^ called from fairy-land 

To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a damp 
Fell round the path of Milton,^ in his hand 

The thing became a trumpet, whence he blew 

Soul-animating strains — alas, too few ! 



^Petrarch: One of the greatest Italian poets (1304-1374). He was 
deeply in love with the daughter of Audibert de Noves and she is the 
famous Laura of his sonnets. Laura, however, married Hugues de Sade. 

2 Tasso : An Italian epic poet who wrote Jerusalem Delivered. 

^ Camoens : A celebrated Portuguese poet, born in Lisbon in 1524. 
His romantic passion for Donna Caterina de Ataide, a lady in attendance 
on the queen, aroused the jealousy of another lover and the dislike of the 
lady's father, and was the cause of the poet's banishment from Lisbon. 

* Dante : Dante Alighieri, the greatest of the Italian poets and one 
of the greatest poets in the world, author of the Divina Commedia, (1265- 
1321). 

" Sjjenfu'r : Ediiniud Hpenser (born 1'53), poet, author of The Fairie 
Queene. Queen Elizabeth gave hin) thje beautiful estate of Kilcolman in 
Ireland, where he lived happily until Tyrone's Rebellion (1598). His 
castle was burned. With diiftculty he escaped and made his Avay to Lon- 
don, where, impoverished and broken-hearted, he died in 1599. 

^ Milton : John Milton, greatest of English epic poets, author of 
Paradise Lost. 



188 ]X)\()].\ BOOK OF vi:hsp: 

SONNET ON THE SONNET 

William Wordsworth 
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; 

And hermits are contented with their cells; 

And students with their pensive citadels; 
Maids at the wlieei, the weaver at his loom, 
Sit blithe and happy; bees tliat soar for bloom, 

Hiirh as tiie hiuhest ]>eak of Furness fells,^ 

Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells: 
In truth, tlie prison unto which Ave doom 

Ourselves, no prison is; and hence to me. 
In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound 
AVithin the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground ; 
Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be), 
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, 
Should find brief solace there, as I huxe found. 



THE TWO VOICES 
William Wordsworth 

This sonnet is soniptimes called On thr Kuhjufjation of Switzerland. 
In 1802 Napoleon completely crushed the liberties of the Swiss who were 
thus driven from their old mountain-home. A: the same tiine Napoleon 
was makinr picantic preparations for his invasion of Ensrland, and the 
poet probaljly feared tlwt Liberty, who had already lost the voice of the 
Mountains, would lose the other voice, that of the sea. 

Two Voices are there; one is of the sea. 

One of the mountains; each a mighty Voice: 
In both from age to age tliou didst rejoice. 

They were thy chosen music, Liberty! 

There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee 

Thou fought'st against him; but hast vainly striven; 
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven, 

Where not a torrent murmurs heard })y thee. 

Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft; 

Then cleave, cleave, to that which still is left; 

For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be 
That Mountain Hoods should thunder as before. 
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore. 

And neither awful Voice' be heard by thee ! 



Fell: A tract of waste land. A )noor. 



SONNETS 189 

THE VIRGIN 

William Wordsworth 

Mother! \\'hose virgin Ijosoni was microst 
With the least shade of thought to siu allied; 
Woman! above all women glorified. 

Our tainted nature's solitary boast; 

Purer than foam on central ocean tost; 

Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak strewn 
With fancied roses, than the unblemished moon 

Before her wane begins on heaven's blue coast: 

Thy image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween, 
Not unforgiven, the suppliant knee might bend 
As to a visi])Ie power, in whicli did blend 
All that was mixed and reconciled in thee 
Of a mother's love with maiden purity. 
Of high with low, celestial witli terrene. 



ODES 



ODES 103 

ODE TO EVENING 

William Collins 

If aught of oaten stop,^ or pastoral song, 

May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear. 

Like thy own solemn springs, 

Thy springs, and dying gales; 

Nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair'd sun 
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, 

With brede^ ethereal wove, 

O'erhang his wavy bed : 

Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat 
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing. 

Or where the beetle winds 

His small but sullen horn, 

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, * 
Against the pilgrim, borne in heedless hum: 

Now teach me, maid composed, 

To breathe some soften'd strain. 

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale. 
May not unseemly with its stillness suit. 

As, musing slow, I hail 

Thy genial loved return ! 

Eor when thy folding-star^^ arising shows 
His paly circlet, at liis warning lamp 

The fragrant hours, and Elves 

Who slept in buds the day, 

And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, 
And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, 

The pensive Pleasures sweet. 

Prepare thy shadowy car. 

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene, 
Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells. 

Whose walls more awful nod 

By thy religious gleams. 



^ Oaten stop: A shepherd's pipe. 
2 Brede : Embroidery. 

^Folding-star: The star, Avhose appearance denoted ' the time for 
taking in the flocks. 



194 LOYOLA BOOK OF \'ERSE 

Or if chill blustering winds or driving rain 
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut 

That, from the mountain's side, 

Views wilds and swelling floods, 

And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires, 
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all 

Thy dewy fingers draw 

The gradual dusky veil. 

While Spring shall pour his show'rs, as oft he wont, 
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve I 

While Summer loves to sport 

Beneath thy lingering light; 

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves, 
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, 

Affrights thy shrinking train. 

And rudely rends thy robes: 

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, 

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lipp'd Health, 

Thy gentlest influence own, 

And hymn thy favourite name ! 



THE PASSIONS 
An Ode for Music 

William Collins 

When Music, heavenly maid, was young, 
While yet in early Greece she sung, 
The Passions oft, to hear her shell, 
Throng'd around her magic cell. 
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting; 
By turns they felt the^glowing mind 
Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined: 
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, 
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired. 
From the supporting myrtles round 
They snatch'd her instruments of sound. 
And, as they oft had heard apart 



ODES 195 

Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 
Each (for Madness ruled the hour) 
Would prove his own expressive power. 

First Fear his hand, its skill to try, 

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, 
And back recoil'd, he knew not why. 

E'en at the sound himself had made. 

Next Anger rush'd; his eyes, on fire, 

In lightning's owned his secret stings; 
In one rude clash he struck the lyre 

And swept with hurried hand the strings. 

With woeful measures wan Despair, 

Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled; 
A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 

'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. 

But thou, Hope, with eyes so fair, 
What was thy delightful measure? 
Still it whisper'd promised pleasure 

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! 
Still w^oujd her touch the strain prolong; 

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale. 
She call'd on Echo still through all the song; 

And, where her sweetest theme she chose, 
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; 

And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair ; — 
And longer had she sung: — but with a frown, 

Revenge impatient rose: 
He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down; 
And with a withering look 
The war-denouncing trumpet took 
And blew a blast so loud and dread. 
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe! 
And ever and anon he beat 
The doubling drum with furious heat; 
And, though sometimes, each dreary pause between. 
Dejected Pity at his side 
Her soul-subduing voice applied, 
Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, 
While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his 
head. 



196 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd: 

Sad proof of thy distressful state ! 
Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd, 

And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate. 

With eyes up-raised, as one inspired. 

Pale Melancholy sat retired, 

And from her wild sequester'd seat. 

In notes by distance made more sweet, 

Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul : 

And, dashing soft from rocks around, 

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound ; 
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, 
Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay. 

Round an holy calm diffusing, 

Love of peace, and lonely musing, 
Li hollow murmurs died away. 

But oh, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone, 
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, 

Her bow across her shoulder flung. 

Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew^. 
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung. 

The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad^ known ! 
The oak-crown'd Sisters- and their chaste-eyed Queen,^ 

Satyrs* and Sylvan Boys, were seen 

Peeping from forth their alleys green : 
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; 

And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear. 

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: 
He, w^ith viny crown advancing. 

First to the lively pipe his hand addrest : 
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol 

Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. 
They would have thought who heard the strain. 

They saw, in Tempe's^ vale, her native maids 

Amidst the festal-sounding shades, 

^ Faun and Dryad: Deities inhabiting the MOods. 

^ Oak-rroirned Sisters: The Dryades, wood-nymphs. 

3 Chaste-eyed Queen : Diana, goddess of the hunt, generally pictured 
with bow and quiver. 

* Satyr : A woodland deity. 

^Tempe: A valley in Thessaly, Greece, famous for its beauty. It 
was inhabited by spirits and woodland nymplis. 



ODES 197 



To some unwearied minstrel dancing; 

While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, 
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round: 
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound, 
And he, amidst his frolic play, 
As if he would the charming air repay. 

Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. 

Music! sphere-descended maid. 
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid! 
Why, goddess! why, to us denied, 
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside? 
As in that loved Athenian bower 
You learn'd an all-commanding power, 
Thy mimic soul, Nymph endear'd, 
Can well recall what then it heard. 
Where is thy native simple heart 
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art? 
Arise, as in that elder time, 
A¥arm, energic, chaste, sublime! 
Thy wonders, in that god-like age, 
Fill thy recording Sister's^ page; — 
'Tis said, and I believe the tale. 
Thy humblest reed could more prevail, 
Had more of strength, diviner rage. 
Than all which charms this laggard age: 
E'en all at once together found, 
Cecilia's mingled world of sound.^ 
bid our vain endeavours cease: 
Revive the just designs of Greece: 
Return in all thy simple state ! 
Confirm the tales her sons relate! 



^ Recording Sister : Clio, the muse of History. 

'Cecilia's world of sound: The organ. St. Cecilia, the patron of 
music, is said to have invented the organ, which poets consider the greatest 
and sum of all musical instruments. 



198 LOYOLA BOOK OF ^^ERSE 

ALEXANDER'S FEAST 
OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC 

An Ode in Honor of St. Cecilia's Day 
John Dryden 

John Dryden, the chief man of letters of the Restoration, was born 
in Northamptonshire, 1631, and died in London, 1700. He attended 
Westminster School and Trinity College, Cambridge. He is popularly- 
remembered for his great odes, Song for St. Cecilia's Day, and Alexander's 
Feast, — and his great allegory. The Hind and the Panther, which repre- 
sents the Catholic Church as a milk-white hind, persecuted, assailed, but 
always pure. From a Puritan he became a Catholic. In panegyrics and 
satire, Avhich were popular at the time, Dryden excelled. 

Alexander's Feast was the ode Dryden wrote for the London Musical 
Society to sing on St. Cecilia's day in 1697. Timotheus, Alexander the 
Great's musician, is depicted as ar.oiising different passions in the king by 
changing the theme of his music. The greatest triumph of music is shown 
in the invention of the organ, ascribed by an unfounded legend to St. 
Cecilia. 

'Twas at the roj^al feast for Persia won 
By Philip's warlike son: 
Aloft in awful state 
The godlike hero sate 

On his imperial throne : 
His valiant peers were placed around, 
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound, 
(So should desert in arms be crowned) ; 
The lovely Thais^ by his side, 
Sate like a blooming Eastern bride 
In flower of youth and beaut3^'s pride. 
Happy, happy, happy pair! 
None but the brave. 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave deserves the fair. 

CHORUS 

Happy, happy, happy pair! 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave. 
None but the brave deserves the fair. 

Timotheus,- placed on high. 
Amid the tuneful choir. 



^ Thais : A famous Athenian beauty loved by Alexander. At the 
feast described in Dryden's ode, which took place in the capital of Persia, 
Persepolis, after the defeat of Darius, the Persian king, Thais incited 
Alexander to fire the city, she leading the way. Troy was burned because 
Helen, the beautiful wife of the Greek, Menelaus, had been stolen by the 
Trojan, Paris. 

2 Timotheus : A celebrated Athenian musician and poet. 



ODES 199 

With flying fingers touched the lyre: 
The trembling" notes ascend the sky, 

And heavenly joys inspire. 
The song began from Jove,^ 
Who left his blissfull seats above, 
(Such is the power of mighty love). 
A dragon's fiery form belied* the god: 
Sublime on radiant spires he rode, 
When he to fair Olympia pressed, 

And while he sought her snowy breast: 
Then round her slender waist he curled. 

And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. 
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound, 
"A present deity!" they shout around: 
"A present deity !" the vaulted roofs rebound. 
With ravished ears 
The monarch hears. 
Assumes the god, 
Affects to nod, / 

And seems to shake the spheres. 

Ill 

The praise of Bacchus* then the sweet musician sung, 
Of Bacchus — ever fair and ever young: 
The jolly god in triumph comes; 
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums ! 
Flushed with a purple grace 
He shows his honest face; 
Now give the hautboys'^ breath. He comes! He comes! 
Bacchus, ever fair and young. 

Drinking joys did first ordain; 
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure : 
Rich the treasure. 
Sweet the pleasure. 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 



^ The soar) hefjan from Jove: The song first treated of Jove. This 
passage refers to Alexander's alleged descent from Jove, king of the gods 
(Greek. Zeus). During his campaign in Egypt Alexander visited the 
temple of Zeus Amnion, where he was saluted by the Egyptian priests as 
the son of Ze\is (Jove). 

* Bacchus : God of wine and revelry. Belied: Disguised. 

'Hautboy: A wooden wind-instrument; oboe. 



200 LOYOLA BOOK OF M^RSE 

IV 

Soothed with the sound the king- grew vain; 

Fought all his battles o'er again; 
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. 
The master saw the madness rise, 
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; 
And, while he heaven and earth defied, 
Changed his hand, and checked his pride. 
He chose a mournful muse 
Soft pity to infuse: 
He sung Darius,^ great and good, 

By too severe a fate, 
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, 
Fallen from his high estate. 

And weltering in his blood; 
Deserted at his utmost need 
By those his former bounty fed: 
On the bare earth exposed he lies, 
"With not a friend to close his eyes. 
With downcast looks the joyless victor sate. 
Revolving in his altered soul 

The various turns of chance below; 
And now and then a sigh he stole. 
And tears began to flow. 

V 

The mighty master smiled, to see 
That love was in the next degree; 
'Twas but a kindred sound to move, 
For pity melta the mind to love. ^ , 

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,''' 

Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 
War, he sung, is toil and trouble, 

Honor but an emptj' bubble; 

Never ending, still beginning, 
Fighting still, and still destroying: 

If the world be worth thy winning. 
Think, oh, think it worth enjoying: 

Lovely Thais sits beside thee. 



^Darius: King of Persia, dethroned by Alexander. 

''Lydian measures: Lydia was an ancient province in Asia Minor, 
famous for luxury and music. Hence Lydian measures are a soft, sensual 
type of music. 



ODES 201 



Take the good the gods provide thee. 
The many rend the skies with loud applause; 
So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause. 

The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
Gazed on the fair 
Who caused his care. 

And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, 

Sighed and looked, and sighed again: 
At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, 
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 



VI 



Now strike the golden lyre again: 
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. 
Break his bands of sleep asunder. 
And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder. 
Hark, hark, the horrid sound 
Has raised up his head: 
As aw^aked from the dead, 
And amazed, he stares around. 
"Revenge ! revenge !" Timotheus cries, 
"See the Furies arise! 
See the snakes that they rear, 
How they hiss in their hair. 
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! 
Behold a ghastly band, 
Each a torch in his hand! 
Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain. 
And unburied remain, 
Inglorious on the plain : 
Give the vengeance due 
To the valiant crew. 
Behold how they toss their torches on high, 
How they point to the Persian abodes, 
And glittering temples of their hostile gods!" 
The princes applaud with a furious joy: 
And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; 
Thais led the way. 
To light him to his prey. 
And, like another Helen, fired another Troy! 



202 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

VII 

Thus long ago, 
Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, 
While organs yet were mute, 
Timotheus, to his breathing flute 
And sounding lyre. 
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 
At last divine Cecilia^ came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame; 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 
Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 
And added length to solemn sounds,^ 
With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 

Or both divide the crow^n; 
He raised a mortal to the skies; 
She drew an angel down. 



^Cecilia: Saint Cecilia, patron of inusic. She is represented in art 
as playing or singing, with the angels who have come down from heaven 
attracted by her music, surrounding her. She is said to have invented the 
organ, — "the vocal frame." 

^ Prolonged soimds and solemnity are characteristic of oi'gan music. 



A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY^ 

John Dryden 

From harmony, from heavenly harmony- 

This universal frame began: 

When nature underneath a heap 

Of jarring atoms lay. 
And could not heave her head, 
The tuneful voice was heard from high, 

"Arise, ye more than dead." 
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,^ 



^ Saint Cecilid : In 1680 a musical society was organized in London 
for the annual commemoration of St. Cecilia's day. An ode written for 
the occasion was set to music by the most able composer and sung before 
the society on the 22nd of November, the feast of the saint. Dryden's 
was the ode sung in 1687. 

- Dryden here assumes with an old philosophic theory that the atoms 
after creation were set in order by music and their continuous motion 
thereafter produced "the music of the spheres." 

^ The four original substances according to some of the ancients. 



ODES 



203 



In order to their stations leap, 
And Music's power obey. 
From harmony, from heavenly harmony 
This universal frame began: 
From harmony to harmony 
Through all the compass of the notes it ran, 
The diapason^ closing full in Man. 

What passion cannot Music raise and quell? 
When Jubal' struck the chorded shell 
His listening brethren stood around, 
And, wondering, on their faces fell 
To worship that celestial sound. 
Less than a God they thought there could not dwell 
Within the hollow of that shell, 
That spoke so sweetly and so well. 
What passion cannot Music raise and quell? 

The trumpet's loud clangor 
Excites us to arms, 
■ With shrill notes of anger, 
And mortal alarms. 
The double, double, double beat 
Of the thundering drum 
Cries, "Hark! the foes come; 
Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat." 

The soft complaining flute 

In dying notes discovers 

The woes of hopeless lovers, 
Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute. 

Sharp violins complain 
Their jealous pangs and desperation, 
Fury, frantic indignation, 
Depth of pains, and height of passion,' 

For the fair disdainful dame. 

But oh! what art can teach. 
What hunian voice can reach, 
The sacred organ's praise? 



*Diamson: The principal stop on a pipe-organ, characterized by 
beauty and fullness of so.ind. The sense here is that God's creation reached 
its highest point with the creation of man. ^ _ 

^ Jubal: The inventor of string and wind instruments, tren. JV, 21. 



204 LOYOLA BOOK OF ^'ERSE 

Notes inspiring holy love, 
Notes that wing their heavenly ways 
To mend the choirs above. 

Orpheus^ could lead the savage race, 
And trees uprooted left their place, 

Sequacions" of the lyre: 
But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher, 
When to her organ vocal breath was given, 
An angel lieard, and straiglit appeared. 

Mistaking earth for heaven. 

GRAND CHORUS 

As from the power of sacred lays 

The spheres began to move. 
And sung the great Creator's praise 

To all the blessed above; 
So when the last and dreadful hour 
This crumbling pageant shall devour, 
The trumpet shall be heard on high, 
The dead shall live, the living die. 
And Music shall untune the sky. 



^Orpheus: In Greek legend, the son of Apollo, avIio had the power 
to charm both living and inanimate things by the power of his sweet lyre. 
"^ ^Sequacious of: Following. 



NIAGARA 

Edward F. Garesciie, S. J. 

God, in His ages past the dawn of days. 
Writ one w^hite line of praise. 

Which now, in this great stress and hour of need, 

I bend my soul to read. 
I break the sullen bonds of Avearying time. 
And with one leap sublime 

Force my astounded soul go back and stand 

In the primeval land. 

« 

The tresses of the ancient flood are kissed 

With virginal white mist. 

The same soft, thunderous sound 

Thrills the wild woods around; 



ODES 205 

But Oh, the vast and mighty peace that broods 
On these green solitudes, 

Where the great land,* with one tremendous tone, 

Litanies to God, alone! 

Tongue of the continent! Thou whose hymning shakes 
The bosom of the lakes ! 

sacrificial torrent, keen and bright, 
Hurled from thy glorious height! 

Thou sacerdotal presence, clothed in power, 
At once the victim and the white-robed priest. 
Whose praises through these ages hath not ceased. 
Whose altar steams with incense every hour! 
Lo, in all days, from thy white water rise 
The savors of perpetual sacrifice! 

1 see — pale prophecy of Christ's dear blood — 
The transubstantiation of thy flood! 

Oh, the wild wonder of the vast emotion 

Of the perturbed wave. 
That cries and wanders like the fearful ocean. 

Seeking, with none to save! 
In their wide agony the rapids roam, 

A world of waves, a universe of pain. 
The vexed, tumultous clamor of their foam 

Crying to God with agonized refrain, 
Where the sad rocks their cjuivering summits hide 

In the loud anguish of the refluent tide. 

Yet, with a willingness that leaps to sorrow. 

Swift run the ragged surges to the height, 
And from their pain is born a pure delight — 

The fear today, the snowy peace tomorrow. 

Cleaving like darts their swift and silvery way, 
With sudden gleams and bars of glittering spray, 

They hurry to the brink, and swift are lost 

In that stupendous leap, that infinite holocaust. 

Christ-like glory of the praying w^ater 

That leaps forever to its mystic death ! 

And from the anguish of that sobbing slaughter 

Lifts the clear glory of the torrent's breath. 

Where, like a paean of rapturous victory, calls 

The solemn jubilation of the falls! 



206 LOYOLA BOOK OF \^RSE 

glory-vestured priest, thy splendor spraying 
More lasting than the immemorial hills! 

monument of waves, undecaying. 

While God's right hand thy flowing chalice fills! 

Under the transient world's astonished eyes 

Thou offerest abiding sacrifice. 

In the pale morning, when the rising sun 

Flatters thy pouring flood with slanting beams, 

Most reverent thy duteous waters run, 

And hymn to God with all their thousand streams. 

And in the blazing majesty of noon. 

Still lifts thy wave its sacrificial tune. 

And spills, like jewels of some eastern story. 
Its bright impetuous avalanche of glory. 

And in the stilly spaces of the night, 

While heaven wonders with its wakeful stars, 

Thou prayest still, beneath the solemn light, 

In booming tones that reach to heaven's bars, 

Keeping thy vigils, while the angelic moon 

Walks on thy perilous verge with glorious shoon. 

Chanting from foam and spray withouten cease 
Thy yearning immemorial prayer for peace. 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 

John Keats 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 

Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 
One minute past, and Lethe^-wards had sunk: 

'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 
But being too happy in thine happiness. — 
That thou, light-winged Dryad- of the trees. 
In some melodious plot 

Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 



"^ Lethe : The stream of oblivion in the Icv.-er world, a drink of whose 
■water brought forgetfulness. 

-Dryad: A wood-nymph. 



ODES 207 

Oh, for a draught of vintage, that hath been 
Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, 

Tasting of Flora^ and the country-green. 

Dance, and Proven^aP song, and sunburnt mirth! 

Oh, for a beaker full of the warm South ! 
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,^ 
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
And purple-stained mouth; 

That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 
And with thee fade away into the forest dim! 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What thou among the leaves hast never known. 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; 
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, 

Where youth grows pale,® and spectre-thin, and dies; 

Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs; 
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 

Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 

Away! away! for I will fly to thee. 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,''' 

But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: 

Already with thee ! tender is the night. 

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne. 
Clustered around by all her starry Fays;^ 
But here there is no light. 

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet. 

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs. 

But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 
Wherewith the seasonable month endows 

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; 



^ Flora : The goddess of flowers; here, flowers in general. 

* Proveii<;(d : Ru sti c . 

^ Hippocrene ; A fountain on Mt. Helicon, sacred to the muses, the 
waters of which were supposed to give poetic inspiration. 

® Where youth grows pale, etc. : Evidently the poet is thinking of his 
brother who, a short time previous, died of consumption. 

'' Pards : Leopards drew the car of Bacchus, god of wine. 

* Fays : Fairies. 



208 LOYOLA BOOK OF \^RSE 

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; 
Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves; 
And mid-May's eldest child, 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 

Darkling I listen; and for many a time 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, 

Called him soft names in many a mused rhjme, 
To take into the air my quiet breath; 

Now more than ever seems it rich to die. 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
In such an ecstasy! 

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain, — 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 

Tliou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! 

No hungry generations tread thee down; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown: 
Perhaps the self -same song that found a path 

Through the sad heart of Ruth,^ when, sick for home. 

She stood in tears amid the alien corn; 
The same that oft-times hath 
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam 

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 

Forlorn I the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 

Past the near meadows, over the still stream. 
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley-glades: 

Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 

Fled is that music; — do I wake or sleep ?^° 



^ Ruth : A character in the Old Testament who, on the death of her 
husband, left her own country, Moab, for Bethlehem with Noemi, lijer 
mother-in-law. While gleaning in the fields she met Boaz whom she mar- 
ried. See Bool- of Ruth. 

^•^ Do I wake or sleep .• The sense is — "In coming back to the ordinary 
world have I awaked into real life ; or were those moments of beauty and 
joy with the nightingale real existence, in leaving which I have sunk into 
spiritual sleep." 



ODES 



209 



ODE ON A GRECIAN URN^ 

John KIeats 
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, 

Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: 
What leaf -fringed legend haunts about thy shape 
Of deities or mortals, or of both, 

In Tempe2 ^j. the dales of Arcady^^ 
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? 
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? 
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; 
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd. 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: 
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; 
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss. 
Though winning near the goal— yet, do not grieve ; 

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss. 
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed 

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; 
And, happy melodist, unwearied. 

For ever piping songs for ever new; 
More happy love! more happy, happy love! 

For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, 
For ever panting, and for ever young; 
All breathing human passion far above, 

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and eloy'd, 
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 

Who are these coming to the sacrifice? 

To what green altar, mysterious priest, 
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, 

1 "Thei-p is some reason for thinking that the particular nrn which 
inspired this particular poem is a somexvhat Aveather^eaten Avork ni marble 
still preserved in the garden of Holland House."— Bwxfou Forman 

^Temp!: A valley between Mts. Olympus and Ossa in Thessaly. 

famous for its beauty. ,. . • .i -n i o o r-i-^t^r^ th<» 

^Arcady: A picturesque district m the Peloponnesus, Greece, tne 

traditional home of pastoral poetry. 



210 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? 
What little town by river or sea shore, 
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? 
And, little town, thy streets for evermore 
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell 
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 

Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede* 

Of marble men and maidens overwrought. 
With forest branches and the trodden weed; 

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought 
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! 

When old age shall this generation waste. 
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 
Than ours, a friend to man. to whom thou say'st, 

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty, — that is all 
Ye know on earth, and all ve need to know." 



* Brede : Embroidery, ornament. 



ODE ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY^ 

John Milton 

This is the month, and this the happy morn 

Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King, 

Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, 

Our great redemption from above did bring; 

For so the holy sages- once did sing 

That He our deadly forfeit should release, 

And with His Father work us a perpetual peace. 

That glorious Form, that Light unsut^erable. 

And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty 

Wherewith He wont at Heaven's high council-table 

To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, 

He laid aside; and, here with us to be, 



^ Hallam calls this ode "perhaps the most beautiful in the English 
language," and Landor says that stanzas 4 — 7 of the hymn itself are 
"incomparably the noblest piece of lyric poetry in any modern language" 
with which he is acquainted. Milton began the ode on Christmas day, 
1629. 

2 Holy sages : The prophets in the Old Testament who foretold the 
coming of Christ. 



ODES 211 

Forsook the courts of everlasting day, 

And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. 

Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein 

Afford a present to the Infant God? 

Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain 

To welcome Him to this His new abode. 

Now while the heaven, by the sun's team^ untrod. 

Hath took no print of the approaching light, 

And all the spangled host* keep watch in squadrons bright? 

See how from far, upon the eastern road. 

The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet: 

run, prevent them with thy humble ode 

And lay it lowly at His blessed feet; 

Have thou the honour first thj^ Lord to greet. 

And join thy voice unto the Angel quire 

From out His secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire. 

THE HYMN 

It was the winter wild 

While the heaven-born Child 

All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; 

Nature in awe to Him 

Had doff'd her gaudj' trim. 

With her great Master so to sympathize : 

It was no season then for her 

To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. 

Only with speeches fair 

She woos the gentle air 

To hide her guilty front with innocent snow; 

And on her naked shame, 

Pollute with sinful blame. 

The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; 

Confounded, that her Maker's eyes 

Should look so near upon her foul deformities. 

But He, her fears to cease, 
Sent down the meek-eyed Peace; 



s Sun's team : In mythology the sun god drove a team of horses and 
his chariot through the heavens. The time referred to is, therefore, before 
dawn. 

* Spangled host : Stars. 



212 LOYOLA BOOK OF \^RSE 

She, crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding 

Down through the turning sphere, 

His ready harbinger, 

With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing; 

And waving wide her myrtle wand, 

She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. 

No war, or battle's sound 

Was heard the world around: 

The idle sj^ear and shield were high uphung; 

The hooked chariot-^ stood 

Unstain'd with hostile blood; 

The trumpet spake not to the armed throng; 

And kings sat still with awful eye. 

As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. 

But peaceful was the night 

Wherein the Prince of Light 

His reign of peace upon the earth began: 

The winds, with wonder whist, 

Smoothly the waters kist. 

Whispering new joys to the mild ocean — 

Who now hath quite forgot to rave, 

While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. 

The stars, with deep amaze. 

Stand iix'd in steadfast gaze, 

Bending one way their precious influence; 

And will not take their flight 

For all the morning light. 

Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence; 

But in their glimmering orbs did glow" 

Until their Lord Himself bespake, and bid them go. 

And though the shady gloom 

Had given day her room, 

The sun himself withlield his wonted speed, 

And hid his head for shame. 

As his inferior flame 

The new-enlighten'd world no more should need; 

He saw a greater Sun appear 

Than his bright throne, or burning axletree could bear. 



^ Hooked chariot : The ancient war-chai-iot, armed with scythes or 
hooks. 



ODES 213 

The shepherds on the lawn 

Or ere the point of dawn 

Sat simply chatting in a rustic row; 

Full little thought they then . 

That the mighty Pan^ 

Was kindly come to live with them below; 

Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep 

Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep : — 

When such music sweet 

Their hearts and ears did greet 

As never was by mortal finger strook — 

Divinely-warbled voice 

Answering the stringed noise, 

As all their souls in blissful rapture took: 

The air, such pleasure loth to lose. 

With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. 

Nature, that heard such sound 

Beneath the hollow round 

Of Cynthia's^ seat the airy region thrilling. 

Now was almost won 

To think her part was done, 

And that her reign had here its last fulfilling; 

She knew such, harmony alone 

Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union. 

At last surrounds their sight 
A globe of circular light 

That with long beams the shamefaced night array'd; 
The helmed Cherubim 
And sworded Seraphim 

Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed. 
Harping in loud and solemn quire 
With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir- 

Such music (as 'tis said) 
Before was never made 



^Pan: In Greek mythology Pan was the god of pastures, forests, 
and flocks. The name was sometimes poetically applied to Christ as it is 
here. 

''Cynthia: The goddess of the moon, another name for Artemis or 
Diana, derived from Mt. Cynthus in Delos, her reputed birthplace. The 
prose order of the words here is, — ^^"Nature that heard such sound thrilling 
the airy region beneath the hollow round of Cynthia's seat, was now," etc. 



214 LOYOLA BOOK OF ^^ERSE 

But when of old the Sons of Morning sung, 

While the Creator great 

His constellations set 

And the well-balanced Avorld on hinges hung; 

And east the dark foundations deep, 

And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep. 

Ring out. ye crystal spheres! 

Once bless our human ears, 

If ye have power to touch our senses so; 

And let your silver chime 

Move in melodious time; 

And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow ; 

And with your ninefold harmony 

Make up full consort to the angelic symphony. 

For if such holy song 

Enwrap our fancy long, 

Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold; 

And speckled Vanity 

Will sicken soon and die. 

And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould; 

And Hell itself will pass away, 

And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. 

Yea, Truth and Justice^ then 

Will down return to men, 

Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, 

Mercy will sit between. 

Throned in celestial sheen. 

With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering; 

And Heaven, as at some festival, 

Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall. 

But wisest Fate says No; 

This must not yet be so; 

The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy 

That on the bitter cross 

Must redeem our loss; 

So both Himself and us to glorify: 

Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleep 

The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep; 



8 Truth and Justice : Both left the earth but, it was said, they would 
return when the Golden Age should come again. 



ODES 215 

With such a horrid clang 

As on Mount Sinai^ rang 

While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake: 

The aged Earth aghast 

With terror of that blast 

Shall from the surface to the centre shake, 

When, at the world's last session, 

The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread His throne. 

And then at last our bliss 

Full and perfect is. 

But now begins; for from this happy day 

The old Dragon under ground, 

In straiter limits bound. 

Not half so far casts his usurped sway; 

And, wroth to see his kingdom fail. 

Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. 

The Oracles^° are dumb; 

No voice or hideous hum 

Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. 

Apollo from his shrine 

Can no more divine. 

With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving: 

No nightly trance or breathed spell 

Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. 

The lonely mountains o'er 

And the resounding shore 

A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; 

From haunted spring and dale 

Edged with poplar pale 

The parting Genius^^ is with sighing sent; 

With flower-inwoven tresses torn 

The Nymphs in twilight shades of tangled thickets mourn. 

In consecrated earth 
And on the holy hearth 



^ Mt. Sinai : The mount on which the commandments were given to 
Moses during a great tumult of nature. 

^o Oracles : Deities who were supposed to prophecy, the oracle of 
Apollo at Delphos being one of the most famous. 

^"^ Genius: Here a spirit. 



216 LOYOLA BOOK OF M!:RSE 

The Lars^- and Lemures^^ moan with midnight plaint; 

In urns, and altars round 

A drear and dying sound 

Affrights the Flamens^* at their service quaint; 

And the chill marble seems to sweat, 

While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat. 

Peor and Baalim^'' 

Forsake their temples dim, 

With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine ;^^ 

And mooned Aslitaroth,i" 

Heaven's queen and mother both. 

Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; 

The Lybic Hammon^^ shrinks his horn: 

In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz^^ mourn. 

And sullen Moloch,2o fled. 

Hath left in shadows dread 

His burning idol all of blackest hue; 

In vain with cymbals' ring 

They call the grisly king. 

In dismal dance about the furnace blue; 

The brutish gods of Nile as fast, 

Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis,-^ haste. 

Nor is Osiris seen 

In Memphian grove, or green, 

Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud: 

Nor can he be at rest 

Within his sacred chest ; 

Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud; 



^- Lars : In Roman antiquity the household gods. 

^* Lemures : In Roman mythology spirits who could not find rest, — 
ghosts. 

^* Flame n : In Roman antiquity a priest devoted to the service of a 
particular god. 

^" Peor av.d Baalim : Phoenician deities. 

-" Tivice-bottered god of Palestine : Dagon, represented as half man 
and half fish. 

^' Ashtarr.th : Phoenician goddess of love. 

^^ Lybic Hammon : Egyptian god who had the horns of a ram. 

'^^ Thammtiz: Syrian love-god, killed by a wild boar, and yearly 
mourned by women. 

-'^Moloch: The god of the Ammonites. It consisted of a huge brazen 
statue with a blazing furnace inside. The human victims were inserted 
alive in an opening in the breast of the idol. Lest shrieks of the victim 
should sadden the parents, there was a continual clang of cymbals and 
trumpets. 

-^ Isis, Onis, Anubis, aiid Osiris: Egyptian gods. 



ODES 217 

In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark 

The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped ark. 

He feels from Juda's land 

The dreaded Infant's hand; 

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyen; 

Nor all the gods beside 

Longer dare abide, 

Nor Tj''phon22 huge ending in snaky twine: 

Our Babe, to show His Godhead true. 

Can in His swaddling bands control the damned crew. 

So, when the sun in bed^^ 

Curtain'd with cloudy red, 

Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, 

The flocking shadows pale 

Troop to the infernal jail, 

Each f etter'd ghost slips to his several grave ; 

And the yellow-skirted fays^* 

Fly after the night-steeds,-'' leaving their moon-loved maze. 

But see ! the Virgin blest 

Hath laid her Babe to rest; 

Time is, our tedious song should here have ending: 

Heaven's youngest-teemed^^ star 

Hath fix'd"'^ her polish'd car, 

Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending: 

And all about the courtly stable 

Bright-harness'd Angels sit in order serviceable. 



"Typhon: Egyptian god of evil as Osiris was the god of good. 
-3 Su7i in bed : Dawn is meant. 
^* Fay : Fairy. 

-s Night-steeds : That draw the chariot of night. 
'^Youngest-teemed: Latest-born, the Star of Bethlehem. 
-' Hath fixed : Has come to rest after leading the wise men to 
Bethlehem and shines brightly though the day has come. 



218 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

ODE TO THE WEST WIND^ 

Percy B. Shelley 

I 
wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, 

Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, 

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 
Pestilence-stricken multitudes I thou 
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, 

Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
Thine azure sister of the Spring^ shall blow 

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 

(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 

With living hues and odoars plain and hill : 

Wild spirit, which art moving everywhere; 
Destroyer and Preserver; hear, oh hear! 

II 
Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, 

Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed. 
Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean. 

Angels of I'ain and lightning! there are spread 
On the blue surface of thine airy surge, 
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 

Of some fierce Maenad,-^ ev'n from the dim verge 

Of the horizon to the zenith's height — 
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge 



1 



^ "This poem was conceived and chiefly written in a Avood that skirts 
the Arno River, near Florence, and on a day when the tempestuous wind 
whose teuiperature is at once mild and animating was collecting the 
vapors which pour down the autumnal rains." — Shelley. The meter of the 
poem is the Italian "terza rima," the same Dante used in his Divine 
Comedy. The first and third lines of each stanza rhyme with the middle 
line of the preceding stanza. 

2 Thine azure sister of the Spring : The south wind which in the 
spring is laden with bhie haze. 

^Maenad: A priestess of Bacchus, god of wine. The Maenads 
celebrated the feasts of Bacchus with wild songs and dances. 



ODES 219 

Of the dying: year, to which this closing night 
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 
Vaulted with all thy congregated might 

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere 

Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: Oh hear! 

Ill 

Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams 

The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 
Lull'd by the coil^ of his crystalline streams, 

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's^ bay, 
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
Quivering within the wave's intenser day. 

All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers 

So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou 
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 
The sea-blooms^ and the oozy woods which wear 
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear 
And tremble and despoil themselves: Oh hear! 

IV 

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear ; 

If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; 
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 

The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
Than Thou, uncontrollable! If even 
I were as in m}^ boyhood, and could be 

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, 

As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed 
Scarce seem'd a vision, — I would ne'er have striven 



4 Coil : Murmur. 

^ Baiae : Town on tlie sea near Naples, a favorite resort of tbe 
ancient Romans. 

'^ The sea-blooms : "The vegetation at the bottom of the sea, of 
rivers, and of lakes sympathizes with that of the land in the change of 
seasons, and is consequently influenced by the winds which announce 
it." — Shelley. 



220 LOYDLA BOOK OF ^^ERSE 

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
Oh ! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! 

A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd 
One too like thee— tameless, and swift, and proud. 

V 

Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is : 

What if my leaves are falling like its own ! 
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 

Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, 
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, 
My spirit ! Be thou me, impetuous one ! 

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe. 

Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth; 
And, by the incantation of this verse, 

Scatter, as from an unextiguished hearth. 
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! 
Be tlirougii ]ny lips to unawakened earth 

The trumpet of a prophecy! Wind, 

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? 



1 




M. 




Francis Thompson 



ODES 221 



THE HOUND OF HEAVEN 
Francis Thompson 

The Hound of Heaven is one of the great if not the greatest lyrical 
poem in the English language. For sublimity of thought, power of ex- 
pression, beauty of imagery, and verse melody, all of which qualities are 
to be sought in a great poem, it is unsurpassed by any of the masterpieces 
of our greatest English lyrists. 

Though the allegorical title may at first sight seem almost irreverent 
(God, the heavenly Hound, pursuing the fugitive hare, the soul), yet this 
metaphor really brings out with more telling force even than the com- 
parison of the Good Shepherd and the lost sheep, the insistent, unrelenting 
search of God after the soul that is flying from His love and service. 
It expresses with great vividness the ceaseless energy, the insistence of 
the pursuit, and the almost mad desire for capture on the part of the 
pursuer, qualities so characteristic of divine love. This same thought it is 
that is brought out so powerfully by St. Ingatius in his Spiritual Exercises. 

In this poem Thompson shows a mastery of the English language 
truly remarkable. Even the simplest thoughts he casts into figures of 
wondrous beauty, and one figure "doth tread upon another's heels, so 
fast they follow." The poem deserves the closest study. Besides the bril- 
liance and originality of the imagery, note the complicated rhjoning scheme, 
the rhetorical effects, tone color, etc. 

Though some critics think this poem may be a record of Thompson's 
own spiritual experience, this statement need not be taken literally. Poets 
as a rule are not accurate historians. ^ 

John Freeman in his essay on Francis Thompson in The Moderns, 
sag's: "The Hound of Heaven is one of the most v/onderful lyrical poems 
in our language because it expresses an intense i)ersona]ity and a unique 
spiritual ardency. The poem is a striking instance of the co-existence of 
the two sincerities — the personal and the artistic; the joint activity of two 
motives — one spiritual and one poetic. . . . The pursuit of the soul by 
its "tremendous Lover" has never been more fjurely or more powerfully 
suggested, even by the seventeenth-century poets with whom Thompson has 
so often been compared. Not Crashaw's self, vehement and storm-like as 
was his worship, has reached the siiblimity of this tribute. 

"And then, forgetting this, read the poem if you can simply as verse 
and note the height to which Thompson's muse so easily rises. He sug- 
gests, as few English poets do, speed, energy of flight, rapture. He uses 
repetition to sharpen the sense of pursuit: yo\i hear the very wind of 
speed, feel the beating swift wing.s, are conscious of disturbed heights of 
air. Who since Shelley has moved more securely than Thompson among 
the large metaphors and images into which earthly and spiritual phenomena 
are resolvable and through which aloire they are intelligible ? Thompson 
rejoices in the spaciousness of imagery almost too great for comprehension. 
He is perhaps unique among poets of our generation who are masters of 
the sublime. . . . Only a poet of terrible earnestness and unchallengeable 
power dare attempt those fine-breathed flights in which anything short of 
perfect success is presumptuous failure. Thompson moves in the loftier 
altitudes with an ease which is in itself really impressive and absoJnt<( 
the mark of royal inheritance. . . . This poem, for all the apparent cx- 
clusiveness of its subject, has really the universality of a great human 
conception, in which all men may see something, and many see more than 
the whole, of their private experience." 

Note the many concrete figures to visualize the paths taken by thir 
fugitive, — arches of the years, labyrinthine ways, mist of tears, under 
running laughter, vistaed hopes, etc. 



222 LOYOLA BOOK OF TERSE 



I 
*I fled Him, down the nights and down the days; 

I fled Him, down the arches of the years; 
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways 

Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears 
I hid from Him, and under running laughter. 
Up vistaed hopes I sped; 
And shot, precipitated, 
Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears, 
From those strong Feet that followed, followed after. 
But with unhurrying chase. 
And unperturbed pace. 
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy. 

They beat — and a Voice beat 
More instant than the Feet — 
All things betray thee, who betrayest Me." 



u 



II 
f I pleaded, outlaw-wise,- 
By many a hearted casement, curtained red, 

Trellised with intertwining charities; 
(For, though I knew His love Who followed, 

Yet was I sore adread 
Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside.) 
But, if one little casement parted w^ide, 

The gust of His approach would clash it to. 
Fear wist" not to evade, as love wist to pursue. 

][ Across the niargent'* of the world I fled, 

And troubled the gold gateways'^ of the stars. 
Smiting for shelter on their clanged bars; 
Fretted to dulcet jars 

And silvern chatter^ the pale ports^ o' the moon. 

- / pleaded etc. : Here the sinner pleading for the love of his fellow 
man is compared to an outlaw pleading at a latticed window, the human 
heart being the window which is ciirtained in red, the symbol of love. 
Just as the casement in response to his pleading opens wide, and he is 
about to be admitted, the speedy approach of the divine pursuer causes 
it to slam tight. 

3 Wist : Knew, past of Avit, to know, learn. The sinner in his fear 
knew not how to escape, as God in His love knew how to pursue. 

* MargcJit : Limit, boundary. 

^Troubled the gold gateways etc.: His imaginative flight to the 
heavens is visTialized and made concrete by comparing it to a man knock- 
ing at a gate, smiting on the bars for admission. 

' Chatter : A rattling. 

''Ports: Here, a gate: the same figure applied to the moon. Note, 
however, the accurate contrast of description in the same figure applied 
to the golden stars and silver moon. 



ODES 223 



* Day and night, through the 
years, in sorrow, joy, hope, and 
depression, the sinner fled from 
God, knoiving all the while that 
he icas being pursued. His con- 
science kept telling him that 
creatures would not satisfy his 
desire for love and happiness 
since he ivas betraying the Creat- 
or of them by flduting His love. 



f Like an outlaiv begging for 
mercy, he pleaded for loce 
from his fellow-men, but their 
love failed him while God still 
pursued. 



^ Perhaps by getting out of 
the world entirely he might be 
able to escape the insistent pur- 
suer, so in imagination he fled to 
the heavens, knocked at the gate 
of the stars, begging there for 
shelter. He bids the stars cover 
him and hide him from the pur- 
suing lover. It is futile. There 
is no shelter for him there, for 
they are God's obedient crea- 
tures and will not betray Him. 
The fugitive now realizes the 
truth of that saying in the 
Psalm (138) : "If I ascend into 
heaven, thou art there; if I de- 
scend into hell, thou art pres- 
ent." 



224 LOYOLA BOOK OF \t:rse 

I said to Dawn: Be sudden; — to Eve: Be soon;^ 
With thy young- skiey blossoms'' heap me over 
From this tremendous Lover — 

Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see! 
I tempted all His servitors, but to find 

My own betrayal^^ in their constancy, 

In faith to Him their fickleness to me. 

Their traitorous trueness, and their loj^al deceit.^^ 

"■To all swift things for swiftnes did I sue; 
Clung to the whistling mane of every wind.^^ 

But whether they sw^ept, smoothly fleet,^^ 
The long savannahs of the blue; 

Or whether, Thunder-driven,^* 
They clanged his chariot 'thwart a heaven, 
Flashy 1^ with flying lightnings round the spurn o' their feet 
Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue. 
Still with unhurrying chase, 
And unperturbed pace, 
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy. 
Came on the following Feet, 
And a Voice above their beat — 
"Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me." 

Ill 
t I sought no more that after which I strayed 

In face of man or maid; 
But still w^ithin the little children's eyes 

Seems something, something that replies, 
They at least are for me, surely for me! 
I turned me to them very wistfully; 
But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair 



^I said to Dawn: Be sudden; — to Eve: Be soon. The natural and 
futile desire of a fugitive criminal, — the speedy passing of time. 

^ Skiey blossoms: The stars. 

" My own betrayal : Note the striking contrast expressed in these 
lines. 

" Traitorous trueness, loyal deceit : A form of antithesis in which 
contradictory terms are brought sharply together for the sake of emphasis. 
It is called oxymoron. 

^" Clung to the whistling mane of every wind: His escape on the 
swift winds is strikingly visualized by likening it to the escape of a man 
on a fast horse. 

^^Whether they sivept, smoothly fleet : The gentle zephrys. 

" Thunder-driven : The storm winds, visualized as a team of racing 
steeds, their chariot di'iven by Thunder. 

^^ Plashy : Note the awful sublimity of this line, so typical of 
Thompson who, even more perhaps than Shelley, loved to romp in vast 
spaces. 



ODES 225 



*Sivift)iess alone ivill enable 
him to escape^ so he clings to the 
swift wind and begs it to hurry 
him away. Again failure. 
Whether he be carried by the 
gentle zephyrs or the storm 
winds, the aivfiil pursuer is at 
his heels, and he hears His 
warning words: ^'Nothing will 
shelter you because you will not 
shelter me." 



^Dissatisfied with his fellow- 
men he turns to the fascinating^ 
innocent love of children. Here 
he will find repose, — but just as 
the little children begin to re- 
spond to his love, Death takes 
them from him. Again disap- 
pointment. 



226 LOYOLA BOOK OF ^'ERSE 

With dawning answers there, 
Their angel plucked them from me by the hair.^^ 

IV 

*''Come then, ye children. Nature's— share 
With me" (said I) "your delicate fellowship; 
Let me greet you lip to lip, 
Let me twine with you caresses, 

Wantoning 
With our Lady-Mother's vagrant tresses, 

Banqueting 
With her in her wind-walled^^ palace. 
Underneath her azured dais,^^ 
Quaffing, as your taintless way is, 
From a chalice 
Lucent-weepingi9 out of the dayspring."2o 

So it Avas done: 
I in their delicate fellowship was one — 
Drew the bolt of Nature's secrecies.21 
I knew all the swift importings 
On the wilful face of skies; 
I knew how the clouds arise. 
Spumed of the wild sea-snortings ; 
All that's born or dies 
Rose and drooped with; made them shapers 
Of mine own moods,-- or wailful or divine; 
With them joyed and was bereaven. 
I was heavy with the even, 
When she lit her glimmering tapers 
Round the day's dead sanctities. 
I laughed in the morning's eyes. 
I triumphed and I saddened with all weather, 

Heaven and I wept together. 
And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine; 



^^ Their avgel plucl-pd them from me by the hair: Death. 

^T Wind-walled : A beautiful expression for out-of-doors, the home of 
Mother Nature. 

^'^ Dais : Canopy. Azured dais. The sky. 

^^ Lucent-tceeping chalice: A chalice pouring out light. 

^^ Day spring : The early dawn. 

21 Drew the holt of Nature's secrecies: Had an intimate knowledge 

"- ^ J "^"^ ^^ Nature, expressed in particular in the lines that follow. 

"Made them shapers of mine own moods: This expresses in general 
his sympathetic knowledge of Nature, particularized in the following' lines. 



ODES 227 



* In despair he turns to the 
children of Nature and begs ad- 
mittance into their intimate fel- 
lowship. They receive him, he 
becomes a child of Mother Na- 
ture, knows her secrets, shares 
her joys and sorrows. Here, he 
thinks, is love and happiness. 
But it is neither lasting nor real. 
He soon tires of Nature. She is 
poiverless to fill the void and 
satisfy the longing in his heart. 
Again he hears the footfall of 
the pursuer, deliberate and insis- 
tent as ever, and he catches His 
words of warning and entreaty: 
"Nothing will content you be- 
cause you will not content Me.'' 



228 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

Against the red throb of its sunset-heart^^ 
I laid my own to beat, 
And share commingling heat; 
But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart. 
In vain my tears were wet on Heaven's grey cheek. 
For ah! we know not what each other says, 
These things and I; in sound I speak — 
Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences. 
Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drought;^* 

Let her, if she would owe me. 
Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me 

The breasts o' her tenderness: 
Never did any milk of hers once bless 
My thirsting mouth. 
Nigh and nigh draws the chase. 
With unperturbed pace. 
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy; 
And past those noised Feet 
A Voice comes yet more fleet — 
"Lo! naught contents thee, who content'st not Me." 

*Naked I wait Thy love's uplifted stroke ! 

My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me, 

And smitten me to my knee; 

I am defenceless utterly. 

I slept, methinks, and woke,-^ 
And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep, 
la the rash lustihead of my young powers, 

I shook the pillaring hours"^ 
And pulled my life upon me; grimed with smears, 
I stand amid the dust o' the mounded years — 



^^ Against the red throb of its sunset-heart: From this line down to 
"My thirsting mouth" the relation between the fugitive and Mother Nature 
in whom he has taken refuge is visualized by the relation between a 
mother and her infant child. 

2* Cannot slake my drought : Cannot satisfy my thirst for love and 
happiness. 

25/ slept, methinks, and icoke : He is given a retrospect of his 
wasted life. 

"^ I shook the pillaring hours: A reference to Samson, the strong 
man, of the Old Testament (Judges 1, 30), who by shaking the pillars of 
the house in which the Philistines were banqueting, pulled down the 
building, destroying all within it, including himself. "In the rash lusti- 
head of my young powers, I shook the pillaring hours," that is, in the 
vigor of his youth, instead of serving God, he squandered his time in 
vain pursuits, thus shaking and pulling down the whole temple of time to 
his own destruction. 



ODES 229 



*There is nothing left noiv hut 
surrender. Like a defeated gla- 
diator, stripped of his armor, 
he kneels before the divine 
Conqueror, a cajJtive. In a 
dream he sees hi^ past life wast- 
ed in foolish flight and vain pur- 
suits. Everything has failed 
him; nothing has satisfied his 
desire for love and happiness. 
Even the poetry in which he 
used to find so much consolation 
cannot now content him. It is 
trifling and transitory. He 
must have a love great and last- 
ing. God will not permit him 
to love creatures and exclude di- 
vine love from his heart. 



230 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap. 
My days have crackled and gone up in smoke, 
Have puffed and burst as sun-starts-" on a stream. 

Yea, faileth now even dream 
The dreamer, and the lute-^ the lutanist ; 
Even the linked fantasies,^^ in whose blossomy twist 
I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist, 
Are yielding; cords of all too weak account^^ 
For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed. 

Ah! is Thy love indeed 
A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed,^^ 
Suffering no flowers except its own to mount? 

"*Ah! must — 
Designer infinite I — 
Ah! must Thou char the wood"^ ere Thou canst limn with it? 
My freshness spent its wavering shower i' the dust; 
And now my heart is as a broken fount, > 
Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever 

From the dank thoughts that shiver 
Upon the sighful branches of my mind. 

Such is; what is to be? 
The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind? 
I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds; 
Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds 
From the hid battlements of Eternity: 
Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then 
Round the half -glimpsed turrets slowly wash again. 

But not ere Idm who summoneth''' 

i tirst have seen, enwound 
With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned; 
His name I know, and what his trumpet saith. 
Whether man's heart or life it be which vields 



-' Siut-stitrts : An im. usual word; the sun-lit bubbles that appear on 
the water. 

-'^Lufe: The lute of poesy on which the poet plays. 

^^ Fantasies : Poetic fancies, figures in which the poet used the 
earth, stars, and the planets as his playthings. Here they are visualized 
as a chain pendent from his wrist on which lie dangles the earth. 

^'^ Cords of all too icflak account: The consolation afforded him by 
poetry cannot equal the sorrows of this life. 

^'^Amaranthine icced: An imaginary never-fading flower that absorbs 
all the moisture near it, causing flowers near-by to die. 

*- Char the wood : As the artist must reduce the wood to charcoal 
before it is a fit instrument for drawing, so God must purify the soul by 
trial and suffering to make it a fit instrument for divine use. 

^^ Him who summoneth : Death. 



ODES 231 



* God, the infinite Artist, must 
perfect His creature, man, hy 
trial and suffering before lie is 
a fit ittstrumeiit for divine use. 
The captive is repentant and 
grief-strike)i at his misspent 
grief-stricken at his misspent 
death awaiting him. 



232 LOYOLA BOOK OF YERSE 

Thee harvest, must Thy harvest-fields 
Be dunged with rotten death? 

VI 

*Now of that long pursuit 

Conies on at hand the bruit;"* 
That Voice is round me like a bursting sea: 

"And is thy earth so marred, 

Shattered in shard on shard ^^^ 
Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me! 

Strange, piteous, futile thing! 
Wherefore should any set thee love apart? 
Seeing none but I makes much of naught" (He said), 
"And human love needs human meriting: 

How hast thou merited — 
Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot? 

Alack, thou knowest not 
How little worthy of any love thou art! 
Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee, 

Save Me, save only Me? 
All which I took from thee I did but take. 

Not for thy harms. 
But just that thou might'st seek it in my arms. 

All which thy child's mistake 
Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home: 

Rise, clasp my hand, and come!" 

t Halts by me that footfall : 
Is my gloom, after all. 
Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly? 
"Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest, 
I am He Whom thou seekest! 
Thou dravest^® love from thee, who dravest Me." 



^* Bruit : Clamor, din. 

^ Shard : Broken pieces of pottery 

^ Dravest : Old form of drovest. 



ODES 233 



'^The chase is over. The cap- 
tive hears the voice of his Captor 
ringing about him: ''Everything 
failed you because yoii ran aivay 
from Me. Who ivould love a 
sinful mass of clay except MeT 
I took everything from you not 
to make you unhappy but be- 
cause I leant ed you to seek them 
in My arms. You should not 
have excluded Me from your 
love. I have preserved for you 
all the happiness I took away, 
and, now that you have surrend- 
ered, I will give it all hack 
again." 



\The divine Victor in the race 
stands over him, and the captive 
now sees that the awful gloom 
ivhich he thought must follow a 
surrender to the service of his 
Maker was only the shade of 
God's hand outstretched to ca- 
ress and embrace him. Foolish 
he was and blind. He was dri- 
ving out of his heart the very 
love and happiness he sought 
whe)i he ran away from the 
loving Hound of Heaven. 



234 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 



INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLEC- 
TIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD 

William Wordsworth 

In Intimations of Immortality, one of the greatest of English odes, 
Wordsworth draws on the deep instincts and feelings of early childhood, 
feelings common to all, to prove in a poetic and not in an argumenta- 
tive way the immortality of men. "'Nothing," he says, "was more difficult 
for me in childhood than to admit the notion of death as a state applica- 
ble to my own being. But it was not so much from feelings of animal 
vivacity that my difficulty came as from a sense of the indomitableness of 
the spirit within me. I was often unable to think of external things as 
having external existence, and I communed with all that I saw as some- 
thing not apart from, but inherent in, my own immaterial nature. Many 
times while going to school have I grasped at a wall or tree to recall 
myself from this abyss of idealism to the reality of things. At that lime 
I was afraid of such processes. In later periods of life I have deplored, 
as we all have reason to do, a subjugation of an opposite character," — 
namely, being too much engrossed with the things of sense with the result- 
ant injury to the soul. 

The poem begins in a melancholic strain, the poet recalling "the 
dream-like vividness and a splendor which invested objects of sight in 
childhood," which passed from him in later life. Now he must reason out 
his immortality. It is not now as in childhood days a feeling always 
present to him. Still he has reason to rejoice that through memory he 
can recall that feeling of childhood, that vivid sense of immortality. 

O joy! that in our embers 

Is something that doth live, 

That Nature yet remembers 

What ivas so fugitive! 
From a reading of the poem one would obviously conclude that 
Wordsworth believed in a state of existence prior to out life on earth, 
but he denies this. "I think it right to protest," he says, "against a con- 
clusion which has given pain to some good and pious persons, that I 
meant to inculcate such a belief. A pre-exi.stent state has entered into 
popular creeds of many nations, and it is known as an ingredient of 
Platonic philosophy. When 1 was impelled to write this poem I took hold 
of the notion of pre-existence as having sufficient foundation in humanity 
for authorizing me to make the best use of it I could." This, however, 
is no explanation and a poor apology, especially when Wordsworth did 
not believe the false doctrine. Besides it was not necessary for his pur- 
pose and it is a pity he has marred the great ode by introducing pagan 
philosophy. The passage where it enters, "Our birth is but a sleep and 
a forgetting;" from a poetic viewpoint, is one of the most sublime in 
the ode. 



There was a time Avhen meadow, grove, and stream, 
The earth, and every common sight 
To me did seem 
Apparell'd in celestial light, 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of yore; — 
Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
By night or day. 
The thin2:s which I have seen I now can see no more. 



ODES 235 

II 

The rainbow comes and goes, 

And lovely is the rose; 

The moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are bare; 

Waters on a starry night 

Are beautiful and fair; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth; 
But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath past away a glory from the earth. 

Ill 
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 
And while the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's^ sound, 
To me alone there came a thought of grief: 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief. 

And I again am strong. 
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; — 
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong: 
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng. 
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, - 
And all the earth is gay; 
Land and sea 
Give themselves up to jollity, 

And with the heart of May 
Doth every beast keep holiday; — 
Thou child of joy. 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shep- 
herd-boy 1 

IV 

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; 
My heart is at your festival. 
My head hath its coronal, 
The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 
Oh evil day! if I were sullen 
While Earth herself is adorning 
This sweet May-morning, 



Tabor : A small drum. 

Fields of sleep : The slumbering country-side. 



236 LOYOLA BOOK OF M^RSE 

And the children are culling 

On every side 
In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, 
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm: — 
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 
— But there's a tree, of many, one, 
A single field which I have look'd upon, 
Both of them speak of something that is gone : 
The pansy at my feet 
Doth the same tale repeat : 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
Where is it now, the glorv and the dream? 



Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; 
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 
Hath had elsewhere its setting, 

And Cometh from afar; 
Not in entire forgetfulness. 
And not in utter nakedness. 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home: 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing Boy, 
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows. 

He sees it in his joy; 
The Youth, who daily farther from the east 
Must travel, still is Nature's priest, 
And by the vision splendid 
Is on his way attended; 
At length the Man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 

VI 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 
And, even with something of a mother's mind, 
And no unworthy aim, 
The homely nurse doth all she can 
To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man, 



ODES 237 



Forget the glories he hath known, 
And that imperial palace whence he came. 

VII 

Behold the Child among his new-bom blisses, 
A six years' darling of a pigmy size! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses. 
With light upon him from his father's eyes! 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
Some fragment from his dream of human life. 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral; 

And this hath now his heart, 

And unto this he frames his song: 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife; 

But it will not be long 

Ere this be thrown aside. 

And with new joy and pride 
The little actor cons another part; 
Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage' 
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
That Life brings with her in her equipage; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 

VIII 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy soul's immensity; 
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind. 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, — 

Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! 

On whom those truths do rest. 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; 
Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, 
A Presence which is not to be put by; 
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 



238 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

Of heaven -born freedom on thy being's height, 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight. 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 
Hen^'^'^ as frost, and deep almost as life! 

IX 

joy! that in our embers 
Is something that doth live, 
That Nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive! 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction: not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blest; 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest. 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: — 
— Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise; 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things,^ 
Fallings from us, vanishings; 
Blank misgivings of a creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized, 
High instincts, before which our mortal nature 
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised : 
But for those first affections. 
Those shadowy recollections, 

Which, be they what they may. 
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day. 
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy j^ears seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake. 

To perish never; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour. 
Nor man nor boy 



^Questionings of sense, fallings from us: Doubt as to the existence 
of external things, the unreality of the material world about us. The 
poem here hints at the false belief of Idealists, — that material things do 
not really exist outside of us but are mere figments of the mind. Words- 
worth did not believe the absurd doctrine of Idealism. 



ODES 239 



Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
Can utterly abolish or destroy! 

Hence, in a season of calm weather 
Though inland far we be, 
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brought us hither; 
Can in a moment travel thither — 
And see the children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 



X 

Then, sing, ye birds, sing a joyous song! 

And let the young lambs bound 

As to the tabor's sound! 
We, in thought, will join your throng 

Ye that pipe and ye that play, 

Ye that through your hearts to-day 

Feel the gladness of tlie May ! 
What though the radiance which was once so bright 
Be now for ever taken from my sight. 

Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; 

We will grieve not, rather find 

Strength in what remains behind; 

In the primal sympathy 

Which having been must ever be; 

In the soothing thoughts that spring 

Out of human suffering; 

In the faith that looks through death. 
In years that bring the philosophic mind. 



And 0, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 
Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 
I only have relinquish'd one delight 
To live beneath your more habitual sway. 
I love the brooks which down their channels fret, 
Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they; 
The innocent brightness of a new-born day 
Is lovely yet; 



240 LOYOLA BOOK OF \'ERSE 

The clouds that gather round the setting sun* 
Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 



* The clouds that gather: This passage has been interpreted in dif- 
ferent ways, — some taking the setting sun literally and others figuratively 
as referring to death. "The meaning seems to be — The falling sun, with 
his bright train of colored clouds, yet brings the sobering thought of the 
race of men who, even in the poet's lifetime, had sunk to their setting 
(died) that their fellows might lord it in the zenith (shine in the world 
by their brilliant talents) crowned with victorious palm." — E. B. Turner. 
O'ther critics think that the main thought in the stanza is that the poet 
still loves nature, partly because it is now associated in his mind with 
human life. The sun, as the poet looks at it, takes on new coloring 
from his thoughts, — a sober color, because life is serious. 



FRENCH FORM'S 



FRENCH FORMS 243 



FRENCH VERSE FORMS 

Although the past few centuries have wrought changes in them, the 
honor of having invented the French forms of verse belongs to the Trou- 
badours of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. They were a highly 
romantic set of singers elaborating fantastic rhymes and rhythms and 
paying more attention to sound than to sense. Previous to the year 1872 
these exotic forms had attracted little attention from English poets but in 
that year Mr. Andrew Lang published his Lays and Lyrics of Old 
France, and the French forms were taken up and done in English. Mr. 
Austin Dobson, Mr. Edmund Gosse, Mr. W. E. Henley, Mr. Clinton Scol- 
lard, and Mr. Frank Dempster Sherman have done much to popularize 
this style of metrical composition. 

Tlie BALLADE. This, the most popular of the French forms in 
English, lends itself to any subject, lofty, light, playful, comic or sad. 
In its normal type it consists of three stanzas of eight lines, followed by 
a verse of four lines, known as the envoi (envoy), or three stanzas of ten 
lines, with envoi of five, each of the stanzas and eurni closing with the same 
line, called the refrain. The poem is usually written in iambic trimeter or 
tetrameter, and the rhyme formula is ababbcbc for the eight-line 
stanzas, and a b a b b c c d c d for the ten. The following are the rules 
for the ballade : 

First, The same set of rhymes in the same order which they occupy 
in the first stanza must repeat throughout the poeri. 

Second, No word used as a rhyme must be used again for that 
purpose in the poem. 

Third, Each stanza and the envoi must close with the refrain and 
the envoi must take the same rhymes as the last half of the preceding 
\erse, in the same order. For the ballade of eight lines only three rhymes 
are allowed. 

It will be noted that the envoi is a particular feature of the ballade 
and chant royal. In the olden days this envoi was addressed to the 
patron of the poet or to some dignitary or person he wished to honor. 
That is the reason Prince! or Princess! appears so frequently in the bal- 
lade dedication. • Afterwards it was used no matter who the one ad- 
dres.sed was. The envoi should, since it is the climax as it were of the 
subject, surpass in richness of wording and imagery all the verses that 
precede. 

The CHANT ROYAL, a larger form of the ballade, contains five verses 
of eleven lines and an envoi of five lines. Many suggestions have been 
made to explain the derivation of the name, the best being that it is 
simply the most excellent form of the ballade, the "king of ballades," so 
to say. Henry de Croi derives the title from the fact that poets excelling 
in the writing of the chant royal deserved to be crowned with garlands 
like kings. Much intrinsic beauty and care in construction are demanded 
in moulding this poem lest monotony result from sixty-one lines rhymed on 
five sounds. Mr. Gosse has said with some truth that "the chant royal 
is the final tour-de-force, the ne plus lUtra of legitimate difficulty in the 
construction of a poem." The laws of the ballade apply to the chant 
royal with some added details. The rhyme order is usually a b a b c c d 
d e d e , with envoy of d d e d e . As in the old ballade the envoi begins 
with an invocation. 

The EYRIELLE, a simple and much used form, is made up of four- 
lined verses of eight-syllable lines, the last line of each verse being the 
same. It is much used in hymns. 

ROXDEL is the old form of the word rondeau and is still used of those 
forms written after the pattern of its early shape. It was used much 
in the Fourteenth Century. Originally of eight or ten lines it took, at 
the beginning of the Fifteenth Century, the shape we now assign to it 
of fourteen lines on two rhymes, the first two lines repeating for the 
seventh and eighth and also for the thirteenth and fourteenth. The 
rhyme order is not fixed and the lines are not confined to any particular 
number of syllables. At the beginning of the Sixteenth Century the rondel 
had nearly become the rondeau into which it finally metamorphosed. 



244 LOYOI^ BOOK OF \^RSE 

The RONDEAU is a later form of the rondel and surpassed the latter 
in popularity. It is composed of thirteen lines of eight or ten syllables, and 
two unrhymed refrains. It has but two rhymes throughout. The 
thirteen lines are grouped in three stanzas, the first and third having five 
lines each, the second consisting of three only. The refrain is made of 
the first word or initial phrase of the first line and occurs after the sec- 
ond stanza and at the end of the poem. The usual rhyme order is 
a a b b a, — a a b (followed by refrain), — a a b b a and refrain. The 
quality of dainty and spontaneous Avit and the cleverness with which the 
refrain is used are the secrets of the well-written rondeau. 

The ROUNDEL, a variation of the rondeau, was made popular by Mr. 
Swinburne's volume, A Century of Roundels. As he has it, it contains 
three stanzas of three lines each, a refrain following the first and third 
stanzas. The lines may be of any length from four to sixteen syllables. 
There are only two rhymes, in the order aba (refrain), — b'a b, — 
aba (refrain). 

.The RONDEAU REDOUBLE is not a double rondeau though its name 
would seem to suggest that. There were probably many poems grouped 
under the heading of rondeau without having any distinctive features of 
that form bej^ond a limited number of rhymes and the use of a refrain. 
The rondeau redoiible has six verses of four eight-syllable lines, rhyming on 
two alternate rhymes. Each line of the first quatrain is used in the same 
order as the last line of verses two, three, four and five. The last line of 
verse six has a new wording, but after it, there occurs as a final refrain 
the first half of the first line of the poem. The first verse will, therefore, 
rhyme a b a b, the second b a b a, and the succeeding verses Avill, alter- 
nately, reipeat this scheme. 

The SESTINA, a form not so popular as either the ballade or the 
rondeau, was invented by the French troubadour, Arnaut Daniel, at the 
end of the Thirteenth Century. It was used and admired by Dante and 
Petrach. Many competent judges consider the sestina the supreme work 
of poetic art in the fixed verse forms, while others claim this distinction 
for the chant royal, and others, probably most, for the sonnet. 

1. The sestina has six stanzas, each of six lines of equal length. 

12. The lines of the six verses end with the six same words, not neces- 
sarily rhyming with each other, and these end-words are chosen exclu- 
sively from nouns of two syllables. 

3. The six end-words must repeat unchanged in sound and spelling 
throughout each succeeding verse. The first verse has, of course, the 
initial order, 12 3 4 5 6; the second, 615243; the third, 
3 6 4 1 2 5; the fourth, 5 3 2 6 14; the fifth, 4 5 1 3 6 2 ; the 
sixth, 2 4 6 5 3 1; and the last stanza of three lines ends Avith 2 4 G, 
and uses I 3 5 at the beginning (not necessarily the first Avord) or in 
the middle of the line. 

The VILLANELLE, "the most ravishing jeAvel worn by Erato" (the muse 
of lyric poetry), has been A'ery popular in the English language. In a 
Note on Some Foreign Forms of Verse we read that "the primitive Aallanelle 
was a shepherd's song, its thoughts full of sweetness and simplicity." The 
Avord is deri\'ed from inllanella Avhich means a rustic song or dance ac- 
companying it. This idea has been folloAved out by most writers of the 
villanelle Avho invariably choose pastoral subjects for this dainty lyric. 

The Aallanelle is composed of fiA-e stanzas of three lines each, conclud- 
ing with one of four lines. The first line of the first stanza is used as the 
last line of the second stanza and of each alternate succeeding stanza. The 
last line of the first stanza is used as the last line of the third stanza 
and of each alternate succeeding stanza. Then the first and last lines of 
the first stanza are used for the last tAvo lines of the last stanza. Only 
two rhymes (a b a) are used in the poem and the number of syllables to 
the line is not fixed. Some do not limit the Aallanelle to nineteen lines, 
claiming it may be longer providing the poet adheres to the rhyming 
scheme. 

Of the TRIOLET one poet remarks: "It is charming — nothing can be 
more ingeniously mischievous, more playfully sly, than this tiny thrill of 
epigrammatic melody turning so simply upon its OAvn innocent axis." It 



FRENCH FORMS 245 

is composed of eight lines of any number of syllables and uses one line 
as a refrain three times and another as a second refrain twice. The first 
line is repeated for the foiirth, and the first and second for the seventh 
and eighth. The rhyme order is abaaabab. It is a clever little jingle 
and though it looks comparatively simple, it requires great care to give it 
the charm, spontaneity, and subtle art that it demands. If the effect of 
the frequent repetition is monotony, the triolet is poor. 



BALLADE OF PROSE AND RHYME^ 

(Ballade of Double Befrain) 
Austin Dodson 
When the roads are heavy with mire and rut, 

In November fogs, in December snows, 
When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut, 

There is place and enough for the pains of prose; — 

But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows, 
And the jasmine stars to the casement climb. 

And a Rosaline-face at the lattice shows. 
Then hey ! — for the ripple of laughing rhjone ! 

When the brain gets dry as an empty nut, 
W^hen the reason stands on its squarest toes, 

When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut," 
There is place and enough for the pains of prose; — 
But whenever the May-blood stirs and blows, 

And the young year draws to the "golden prime," — 
And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose. 

Then hey! — for the ripple of laughing rhyme! 

In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant-strut 
In a changing quarrel of "Ayes" and "Noes," 

In a starched procession of "If" and "But," 

There is place and enough for the pains of prose; — 
But whenever a soft glance softer grows. 

And the light hours dance to the trysting-time. 
And the secret is told "that no one knows," 

Then hey! — for the ripple of laughing rhjTue! 

ENVOY 

In the work-a-day world, — for its needs and woes, 
There is place and enough for the pains of prose; 
But whenever the May-bells clash and chime. 
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme! 



^ Mr. Dobson's poems are reprinted with the author's permission. 



246 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

THE POMPADOUR'S FAN^ 

Austin Dobsox 

Chicken-skin, delicate, white, 

Painted by Carlo Vanloo,- 
Loves in a riot of light, 

Roses and vaporous blue; 

Hark to the dainty frou-frou! 
Picture above if you can, 

Eyes that could melt as the dew, — 
This was the Pompadour's fan! 

See how they rise at the sight. 

Thronging the Oeil de Boeuf^ through, 

Courtiers as butterflies bright, 
Beauties that Fragonard* drew, 
Talon-rouge, falbala,^ queue. 

Cardinal, Duke,— to a man, 
Eag(3r to sigh or to sue, — 

This was the Pompadour's fan ! 

Ah ! but things more than polite 

Hung on this toy, voyez vous!^ 
Matters of state and of might, 

Things that great ministers do; 

Things that, maybe, overthrew 
Those in whose brains they began; 

Here was the sign and the cue, — 
This was the Pompadour's fan ! 

ENVOY 

Where are tlie secrets it knew? 

Weavings of plot and of plan? 
— But where is the Pompadour, too? 

This was the Pompadour's fan! 



'^Marquise de Pompadour : Mistress and political adviser of Louis XV 
of France. 

"Carlo Vanloo : A famous French painter; died at Paris, 1765. 

'Oeil de boeuf : (Eye of an ox); in architecture a circular or oval 
window. 

^Jean Honors Fragoiiard : French painter; died at Paris, 1806. 

^ Falbala : A gathered strip on a skirt, a flounce. 

® Voyez vous : Do you see. 



FRENCH FORMS 247 

FOR ME THE BLITHE BALLADE^ 

Clinton Scollard 

Of all the songs that dwell 

Where softest speech doth flow, 
Some love the sweet rondel, 

And some the bright rondeau, 

With rhymes that tripping go 
In mirthful measures clad; 

But would I choose them? — no, 
For rae the blithe ballade! 

O'er some, the villanelle, 

That sets the heart aglow. 
Doth its enchanting spell 

With lines recurring throw; 

Some fade with wasting woe. 
Gay triolets make them glad; 

But would I choose them? — no, 
For me the blithe ballade! 

On chant of stately swell 

With measured feet and slow. 
As grave as minster bell 

As vesper tolling low, 

Do some their praise bestow; 
Some on sestinas sad; 

But would I choose them? — no, 
For me the blithe ballade! 

ENVOY 

Prince, to these songs a-row 

The muse might endless add; 
But would I choose them? — no, 

For me the blithe ballade! 



^ Mr. ScoUard's poems are reiirinted by permission of the author. 



248 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

BENEDICITE 

(Rondel) 
Richard Wilton 

all ye Green Things on the Earth, 

Bless ye the Lord in sun and shade; 

To whisper praises ye were made, 
Or wave to Him in solemn mirth. 
For this the towering pine had birth, 

For this sprang forth each grassy blade; 
all ye Green Things on the Earth, 

Bless ye the Lord in sun and shade. 
Ye wayside weeds of little worth, 

Ye ferns that fringe the woodland glade. 

Ye dainty flowers that quickly fade, 
Ye steadfast yews of mighty girth : 
all ye Green Thing's on the Earth, 

Bless ve the Lord in sun and shade! 



TOO HARD IT IS TO SING 

(Rondel) 

Austin Dobson 

Too hard it is to sing 

In these untuneful times, 
When only coin can ring. 

And no one cares for rhymes. 

Alas! for him who climbs 
To Aganippe's^ spring! 
Too hard it is to sing 

In these untuneful times! 
His kindred clip his wing. 

His feet the critic limes; 
If Fame her laurel bring. 

Old age his forehead rimes; 
Too hard it is to sing 

In these untuneful times. 



^Aganippe's spring: A fountain near Mt. Helicon in Greece, sacred 
to tlie Muses. It was believed to inspire those who drank of it. 



FRENCH FORMS 249 

WITH PIPE AND FLUTE 

(Bondeau) 

Austin Dobson 

With pipe and flute the rustic Pan^ 

Of old made music sweet for man; 
And wonder hushed the warbling bird 
And closer drew the calm-eyed herd, — 

The rolling river slower ran. 

Ah! would,— ah! would, a little span, 
Some air of Arcady could fan 

This age of ours, too seldom stirred 
With pipe and flute! 

But now for gold we plot and plan; 

And from Beersheba unto Dan,^ 
Apollo's^ self might pass unheard. 
Or find the nightjar's* note preferred . . . 

Not so it fared when time began 

With pipe and flute. 

T^; A musical spirit in Greek mythology who invented the reed- 
^'^®'2From Beersheba unto Dan: A common phrase that ineans ''from 



WHEN BURBADGE PLAYED^ 

(Bondeau) 

Austin Dobson 

When Burbadge played, the stage was bare 
Of fount and temple, tower and stair; 

Two backswords- eked a battle out; 

Two supers made a rabble rout; 
The throne of Denmark was a chair! 

^mchard Burladge: The greatest actor of the Elizabethan era; 
played the Shakespearean roles with great skill. He was unsurpassed in 
either comedy or tragedy. 

2 Baclcstvord : A fencer. 



250 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

And yetj no less, the audience there 
Thrilled through all changes of Despair, 
Hope, Anger, Fear, Delight, and Doubt, 
When Burbadge played! 

This is the actor's gift ; to share 
All moods, all passions, nor to care 
One whit for scene, so he without 
Can lead men's minds the roundabout, 
Stirred as of old those hearers were, 

When Burbadge played! 



WITH STRAWBERRIES 

(Tiondeau) 

W. E. Hexley 

With strawberries we filled a tray, 
And then we drove awaj^ away, 

Along the links beside the sea. 

Where wave and wind were light and free, 
And August felt as fresh as May. 

And where the springy turf was gay 
AVith thyme and balm and many a spray 
Of wild roses, you tempted me 

With strawberries! 

A shadowy sail, silent and gray. 

Stole like a ghost across the bay; 
But none could hear me ask my fee. 
And none could know what came to be. 

Can sweethearts all their thirst allay 

With strawberries? 



FRENCH FORMS 251 

FLANDERS' FIELDSi 

(Rondeau) 

Lieutenant Colonel John D. McCrae 

In Flanders' Fields the poppies grow 
Between the crosses, row on row, 

That mark our place, while in the sky 

The larks, still singing- bravely, fly 
LTnheard amid the guns below. 
We are the Dead. Short days ago 
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset's glow, 

Loved and were loved, and now we lie 
In Flanders' Fields. 

Take up our quarrel with the foe; 
To you, from failing hands, we throw 

The torch; be yours to hold it high; 

If ye break faith with us who die. 
We shall not sleep, tho poppies blow 
In Flanders' Fields. 



^ This famous poem was written during the second battle of Ypres, 
April, 1915. Many poems have been written in answer, but they are like 
most poetic replies. Tlie author, a Canadian, died of pneumonia in 1918 
at Boulogne, where he was in charge of No. 3 General Hospital. 



ETUDE REALISTE 

(Roundel) 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 

I 
A baby's feet, like sea-shells pink. 

Might tempt, should Heaven see meet, 
An angel's lips to kiss, we think, 
A baby's feet. 

Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heat 

They stretch and spread and wink 
Their ten soft buds that part and meet. 

No flower-bells that expand and shrink 
Gleam half so heavenly sweet 



252 LOYOLA BOOK OF YEE^ 

As shine on life's untrodden brink, 
A baby's feet. 

II 
A baby's hands, like rosebuds furl'd, 

Whence yet no leaf expands, 
Ope if you touch, though close upcurl'd — , 
A baby's hands. 

Then, even as warrioi*s grip their brands 

When battle's bolt is hurl'd, 
They close, clench'd hard like tightening bands. 

No rosebuds yet by dawn impearl'd 
Match, even in the loveliest lands. 
The sweetest floAvers in all the world, — 
A baby's hands. 

Ill 
A baby's eyes, ere speech begin. 
Ere lips learn words or sighs. 
Bless all things bright enough to win 
A baby's eyes. 

Love, while the sweet thing laughs and lies, 

And sleep flows out and in, 
Sees perfect in them Paradise. 

Their glance might cast out pain and sin, 

Their speech make dumb the wise. 
By mute glad godhead felt within 
A baby's eyes. 



JESUS CRUCIFIED 

(Kyrielle) 
Rev. Frederick William Faber 

Oh, come and mourn with me awhile! 
See, Mary calls us to her side; 
Oh, come and let us mourn with her; 
Jesus, our Love, is crucified! 



FRENCH FORMS 253 

Have we no tears to shed with Him, 
While soldiers scoff and Jews deride? 
Ah! look how patiently He hangs; 
Jesus, our Love, is crucified! 

How fast His hands and feet are nailed; 
His blessed tongue w^ith thirst is tied; 
His failing eyes are blind with blood; 
Jesus, our Love, is crucified! 

Seven times He spoke, seven words of love, 
And all three hours His silence cried 
For mercy on the souls of men; 
Jesus, our Love, is crucified! 

What was Thy crime, my dearest Lord? 
By earth, by heaven. Thou hast been tried. 
And guilty found of too much love; 
Jesus, our Love, is crucified! 

Found guilty of excess of love, 
It was Thine own sweet will that tied 
Thee tighter far than helpless nails; 
Jesus, our Love, is crucified! 

Oh, break. Oh, break, hard heart of mine! 
Thy weak self-love and guilty pride 
His Pilate and His Judas were; 
Jesus, our Love, is crucified! 

Come, take thy stand beneath the Cross, 
And let the blood from out that side 
Fall gently on thee drop by drop; 
Jesus, our Love, is crucified! 

A broken heart, a fount of tears. 
Ask, and they will not be denied; 
A broken heart, love's cradle is; 
Jesus, our Love, is crucified! 

Love of God! Sin of man! 
In this dread act your strength is triea, 
And victory remains with love; 
Jesus, our Love, is crucified! 



254 LOYOLA BOOK OF m<:rse 

MY SOUL IS SICK OF NIGHTINGALE AND ROSE 
(Bondeau Redouble) 
Cosmo Monkhouse 

My soul is sick of nighting-ale and rose, 
The perfume and the darkness of the grove; 

I weary of the fevers and the throes, 
And all the enervating dreams of love. 

At morn I love to hear the lark, and rove 
The meadows, where the simple daisy shows 

Her guiltless bosom to the skies above — 
My soul is sick of nightingale and rose. 

The afternoon is svv^eet, and sweet repose, 
But let me lie where breeze-blown branches move. 

I hate the stillness where the sunbeams doze, 
The perfume and the darkness of the grove. 

I love to hear at eve the gentle dove 
Contented coo the day's delightful close. 

She sings of love and all the calm thereof, — 
I weary of the fevers and the throes. 

I love the night, who like a mother throws 
Her arms round hearts that thro])bed and limbs that strove, 

As kind as Death, that puts an end to woes 
And a]l the enervating dreams of love. 

Because my soul is sick of fancies wove 
Of fervid ecstasies and crimson glows; 

Because the taste of cinnamon and clove 
Palls on my palate — let no man suppose 

Mv soul is sick. 



FRENCH FORMS 255 

SESTINA 

Florence M. Byrne 

When from the portals of her paradise 

Sweet Eve went forth an exile Avith sad heart, 

She lingered at the thrice-barred gate in tears, 

And to the guardian of that Eden fair, 

As on her cheeks there came and went the rose, 

She weeping mourned the harshness of her fate. 

"O angel," cried she, ^'bitter is the fate 
That drives me from this fairest paradise. 
And bids me wear life's rue and not its rose! 
Give me one flower to lay upon my heart 
Before 1 wander through far lands less fair, 
And drown all visions of my past in tears." 

She ceased, but still flowed fast her silent tears 

At memory of the waywardness of fate. 

"Ah," thought slie, "young I am, 'tis true, and fair, 

But shall I find another paradise?" 

Then turning once again with trembling heart. 

She spake; "0 angel, but a rose — one rose!" 

Within the angel's breast compassion rose 
At sight of her sad face and falling tears. 
The while her beauty touched his tender heart. 
And knowing Avell the misery of her fate. 
He gave the flower, a rose of paradise. 
Because she was so very young and fair. 

And since that time there may be flowers as fair. 
But they must all yield fealty to the rose. 
The red, red rose that bloomed in paradise. 
That Eve in exile Avatered Avith her tears, 
The only blossom in her cheerless fate, 
The one flower in the desert of her heart. 

And into every mortal's life and heart 
There come some time, in cloudy days or fair. 
It matters not, to bless and light his fate 
For one short space, the perfume of the rose; 
And though the after years may bring but tears. 
That moment's pleasure is of paradise. 



256 LOYOLA BOOK OF VER^E 

wondrous rose of love most passing fair, 

Whatever our fate in earthly paradise, 

Grant that our tears be dewdrops in thy heart. 



VILLANELLE 

W, E. Henley 

A dainty thing's the Villanelle, 

Sly, musical, a jewel in rhyme, 
It serves its purpose passing well. 

A double-clappered silver bell 

That must be made to clink in chime, 
A dainty thing's the Villanelle; 

And if you wish to flute a spell, 

Or ask a meeting 'neath the lime, 
It serves its purpose passing well. 

You must not ask of it the swell 

Of organs grandiose and sublime — 
A dainty thing's the Villanelle; 

And, filled with sweetness as a shell 

Is filled with sound, and launched in time, 
It serves its purpose passing well. 

Still fair to see and good to smell 

As in the quaintness of its prime, 
A dainty thing's the Villanelle, 

It serves its i^urpose passing well. 



TO THE NIGHTINGALE IN SEPTEMBER 

(Villanelle) 

"Love in Idleness" 

Child of the muses and the moon, 
nightingale, return and sing, 
Thy song is over all too soon. 



FRENCH FORMS 257 

Let not night's quire yield place to noon, 

To this red breast thy tawny wing, 
Child of the muses and the moon. 

Sing us once more the same sad tune 
Pandion^ heard when he was king, 
Thy song is over all too soon. 

Night after night thro' leafy June 

The stars were hush'd and listening, 
Child of the muses and the moon. 

Now new moons grow to plenilune 

And wane, but no new music bring; 
Tliy song is over all too soon. 

Ah, thou art weary! well, sleep on, 

Sleep till the sun brings back the spring. 
Thy song is over all too soon. 
Child of the muses and the moon. 



^Pandion: In Greek legend, a king of Athens, father of Procne and 
Philomela. Procne was changed into a swallow and Philomela into a 
nightingale. See note on Swinburne's Chorus from "Atalanta." 



TO THE DAFFODIL 

(Villanelle) 
Clinton Scollard 

daffodil, flower saffron-gowned, ' 

Effulgent with the Sun-god's gold. 
Thou bring'st the joyous season round! 

While yet the earth is blanched and browned, 

Thou dost thy amber leaves unfold, 
daffodil, flower saffron-gowned. 

We see thee by yon mossy mound, 

Wave from thy stalks each pennon bold, — 
Thou bring'st the joyous season round! 

Fair child of April, promise-crowned. 

We longed for thee when winds were cold, 
daffodil, flower saffron-gowned. 



258 LOYOLA BOOK OF ^^ERSE 

Again Ave hear the merry sound 

Of sweet birds singing love-songs old,- 
Thou bring'st the joyous season round! 

Again we feel our hearts rebound 

Witli pleasures by thy birth foretold,- 
daffodil, flower saffron-gowned, 

Thou bring'st the joyous season round ! 



A SNOWFLAKE IN MAY 

(Triolet) 
Clintox Scollard 

I saw a snowflake in the air 

When smiling May had decked the year, 
And tlien 'twas gone, I knew not where: — 
I saw a snowflake in the air. 
And thought perchance an angel's prayer 

Had fallen from some starry sphere; 
I saw a snowflake in the air 

When smiling May had decked the year. 



IN HIS ARMS 

(Triolet) 
' George MacDonald 

In his arms thy silly lamb 
Lo ! he gathers to his breast ! 

See, thou sadly bleating dam, 

See him lift thy silly lamb! 

Hear it cry, "How blest I am! — 
Here is love and love is rest," 

In his arms thy silly lamb 
Lo ! he gathers to his breast ! 



FRENCH FORMS 259 



KING BOREAS 



(Chant Royal) 
Clintox Scollard 

I sit enthroned 'mid icy wastes afar, 
Bej^ond the level land of endless snow, 

For months I see the brilliant polar star 

Shine on a shore, the lonelier none may know. 

Supreme I rule in monarchy of might, — 

My realms are boundless as the realms of Night. 
Proud court I hold, and tremblingly obey 
My many minions from the isles of Day; 

And when my heralds sound aloud, behold 

My slaves appear with suppliant heads alway! 

I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold. 

I am the God of the winds that are! 

I blow where'er I list, — I come, I go. 
Athwart the sky upon my cloud-capped ear 

I rein my steeds, swift -prancing to and fro. 
The dreary woodlands shudder in affright 
To hear my clarion on the mountain height. 

The sobbing sea doth moan in pain, and pray, 

"Is there no refuge from the storm-king's swayf 
I am as aged as the earth is old, 

Yet strong am I although my locks are gray; 
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold. 

I loose my chains, and then with awful jar 
And presage of disaster and dire w^oe, 

Out rush the storms and sound the clash of war 
'Gainst all the earth, and shrill their bugles blow. 

I bid them haste; they bound in eager flight 

Toward far, fair lands, where'er the sun's warm light 
Makes mirth and joyance; there, in rude affray, 
They trample down, despoil, and crush and slay. 

They turn green meadows to a desert wold, 
And naught for rulers of the earth care they; — 

I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold. 



260 LOYOLA BOOK OF YERSE 

When in the sky, a lambent scimitar, 

In early eve Endymion's bride^ doth glow, 

When night is perfect, and no cloud doth mar 
The peace of nature, when the rivers' flow 

Is soft and musical, and when the sprite 

Whispers to lovers on each breeze bedight 
With fragrance, then I steal forth, as I may, 
And seize upon whate'er I will for prey. 

I see the billows high as hilltops rolled. 

And clutch and flaunt aloft the snowy spray! 

I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold. 

I am in league with Death. When I unbar 
My triple-guarded doors, and there bestow 

Upon my frost-fiends freedom, bid them scar 
The brightest dales with summer blooms a-row, 

They breathe on every bower a deadly blight, 

And all is sere and withered in their sight. 
Unheeded now, Apollo's- warming ray 
Wakes not the flower, for my chill breezes play 

Where once soft zephyrs swayed the marigold, 
And where his jargon piped the noisy jay, — 

I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold. 

ENVOY 

O Princes, hearken what my trumpets say ! — 
"Man's life is naught, no mortal lives for aye; 

His might hath empire only of the mould," 
Boast not yourselves, ye fragile forms of clay! 

I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold. 



^ Endymion's hride : The moon. According to Greek legend Endymion 
was a beautiful youth whom, while he was sleeping in a cave on Mount 
Latmus, Selene (the moon) kissed. 

2 Apollo : God of youth and manly beauty ; later identified with the 
sun-god, Helios. 



HUMOROUS AND LIGHT VERSE 
PARODIES 



HUMOROUS AND LIGHT VERSE 263 



HUMOROUS AND LIGHT VERSE 
PARODIES 

THE FLUTE 

Anon 

Hear the fiuter with his flute, 
Silver Flute! 
Oh, what a world of wailing is awakened by its toot. 
How it demi-semi-quavers 

On the maddened air of night! 
And defieth all endeavors 

To escape the sound or sight 
Of the flute, flute, flute. 
With its tootle, tootle, toot; 
With reiterated tootleing of exasperating toots, 
The long protracted tootleing of agonizing toots 
Of the flute, flute, flute, flute. 
Flute, flute, flute. 
And the wheezings and the spittings of its toots. 

Should he get that other flute, 

Golden flute? 
Oh, what a deeper anguish would its presence institoot ! 
How his eyes to heaven he'll raise, 

As he plays, 

All the days! 
How he'll stop us on our ways 

With its praise! 
And the people — oh, the people, 
That don't live up in the steeple, 
But inhabit Christian parlors, 
Where he visiteth and plays, 
AVhere he plays, plays, plays, 
In the cruellest of ways. 
And thinks we ought to listen, 
And expects us to be mute, 
Who would rather have the earache 
Than the music of his flute. 
Of his flute, flute, flute. 
And the tootings of his toot. 



264 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

Of the toots wherewith he tootest its agonizing toot, 
Of the flute, flewt, fluit, floot, 
Phhite, phlewt, phlewght, 
And the tootle, tootle, tooting of its toot. 



MESOPOTAMIA 

Anon 

'Tis sweet to roam when the morning light 

Resounds across the deep; 
When the crystal song of the woodbine bright 

Hushes the rocks to sleep; 
When the murmuring swan greets the sylvan dawn 

On wrings of liquid blue. 
And the wolf rings out his glittering shout 

"Tu wit, tu wit, tu whoo!" 

When the pearly wing of the wintry trees 

Flashes across the glen; 
When the laughing lights of the moss-grown cliffs 

Haunts the etherial fen; 
When at burning noon the blood-shot moon 

Is bathed in crumbling dew, 
And the wolf rings out his glittering shout 

"Tu wit, tu wit, tu whoo!" 



THE MODERN HIAWATHA 

Anon 

He killed the noble Mudjokivis 
Of the skin he made him mittens, 
Made them with the fur side inside. 
Made them with the skin side outside. 
He, to get the warm side inside. 
Put the inside skin side outside; 
He, to get the cold side outside. 
Put the warm side fur side inside. 



HUMOROUS AND LIGHT VERSE 265 

That's why he put the fur side inside, 
Why he put the skin side outside, 
Why he turned them inside outside. 



JABBERWOCKYi 

(From Through the Looking-Glass) 
Lewis Carroll 

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves 
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; 

All mimsy were the borogoves, 
And the mome raths outgrabe. 

"Beware the Jabbei*woek, my son! 

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! 
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun 

The frumious Bandersnatch !" 

He took his vorpal sword in hand: 

Long time the manxome foe he sought — 



^"That's enough to begin with," Humpty Dumpty interrupted: "there 
are plenty of hard words there. 'Brillig' means four o'clock in the after- 
noon — the time when you begin broiling things for dinner." 

"That'll do very well," said Alice: "and 'slithy'?" 

"Well, 'slithy' means 'lithe and slimy.' 'Lithe' is the same as 'active.' 
You see it's like a portmanteau — there are two meanings packed up into 
one word." 

"I see it now," Alice remarked thoughtfully: "and what are 'toves'?" 

"Well, 'toves' are something like badgers — they're something like 
lizards — and they're something like corkscrews." 

"They must be very curious-looking creatures." 

"They are that," said Humpty Dumpty: "also they make their nests 
under sun-dials — also they live on cheese." 

"And what's to 'gyre' and to 'gimble' ?" 

"To 'gyre' is to go round and round like a gyroscope. To 'ginihle' 
is to make holes like a gimblet." 

"And 'the wabe' is the grass-plot round a sun-dial, I suppose?" said 
Alice, surprised at her own ingenuity. 

"Of course it is. It's called 'uabe,' you know, because it goes a long 
way before it, and a long way behind it — " 

"And a long way beyond it on each side," Alice added. 

"Exactly so. Well then, 'viimsy' is 'flim.sy and miserable' (there's 
another portmanteau for you). And a 'borogove' is a thin shabby -looking 
bird with its feathers sticking out all round — something like a live mop." 

"And then 'mome raths'?" said Alice. "I'm afraid I'm giving you a 
great deal of trouble." 

"Well, a 'rath' is a sort of green pig: but 'mome' I'm not certain 
about. I think it's short for 'from home' — m.eaning that they'd lost their 
way, you knoAv." 

"And what does 'outgrabe' mean ?" 

"Well, 'outgribing' is something between bellowing and whistling, with 
a kind of sneeze in the middle : however, you'll hear it done, maybe — 
down in the wood yonder — and when you've once heard it you'll be quite 
content." From Through the Looking-Glass. 



266 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

So rested he by the Tumtnm tree, 
And stood awhile in thought. 

And as in uiifish thought he stood, 
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, 

Came wliiffling through the tulgey wood. 
And burbled as it came ! 

One, two ! One, two ! And through and through 
The vorpal blade Avent snicker-snaek ! 

He left it dead, and with its head 
He went galumphing back. 

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? 

Come to my arms, my beamish boy! 
frabjous day ! Callooh ! Callay !" 

He chortled in his joy. 

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves 
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; 

All mimsy were the borogoves, 
And the mome raths outgrabe. 



THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER 

(From Through the Looking-Glass) 
Lewis Carroll 

The sun was shining on the sea, 

Shining with all his might : 
He did his very best to make 

The billows smooth and bright ; 
And this was odd, because it was 

The middle of the night. 

The moon was shining sulkily. 

Because she thought the sun 
Had got no business to be there 

After the day was done— 
"It's very rude of him," she said, 

"To come and spoil the fun!" 

The sea was wet as wet could be, 
The sands were dry as dry. 



HUMOROUS AND LIGHT VERSE 267 

You could not see a cloud, because 

No cloud was in the sky : 
No birds were flying overhead — 

There were no birds to fly. 

The Walrus and the Carpenter 

Were walking' close at hand; 
They wept like anything to se^ 

Such quantities of sand. 
"If this were only cleared away/' 

They said, "it would be grand !" 

"If seven maids with seven mops 

Swept it for half a year, 
Do you suppose," the Walrus said, 

"That they could get it clear?" 
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter, 

And shed a bitter tear. 

"0 Oysters, come and walk with us;" 

The Walrus did beseech. 
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk. 

Along the briny beach : 
We cannot do with more than four. 

To give a hand to each." 

The eldest Oyster looked at him. 

But never a word he said: 
The eldest Oyster winked his eye. 

And shook his heavy head — 
Meaning to say he did not choose 

To leave the oyster-bed. 

But four young Oysters hurried up. 

All eager for the treat: 
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, 

Their shoes were clean and neat — 
And this was odd, because, you know. 

They hadn't any feet. 

Four other Oysters followed them. 

And yet another four; 
And thick and fast they came at last, 

And more, and more, and more — 



268 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

All hopping through the frothy waves, 
And scrambling to the shore. 

The Walrus and the Carpenter 

Walked on a mile or so, 
And then they rested on a rock 

Conveniently low: 
And all the little Oysters stood 

And waited in a row. 

"The time has come," the Walrus said, 

"To talk of many things : 
Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax, 

Of cabbages — and kings — 
And why the sea is boiling hot — 

And whether pigs have wings." 

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried, 
"Before we have our chat; 

For some of us are out of breath. 
And all of us are fat!" 

"No hurry!" said the Carpenter. 
They thanked him much for that. 

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said, 

"Is what we chiefly need: 
Pepper and vinegar besides 

Are very good indeed — 
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear, 

We can begin to feed." 

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried. 

Turning a little blue. 
"After such kindness, that would be 

A dismal thing to do!" 
"The night is fine," the Walrus said, 

"Do you admire the view? 

"It was so kind of you to come! 

And you are very nice!" 
The Carpenter said nothing but, 

"Cut us another slice: 
I wish you were not quite so deaf — 

Pve had to ask you twice!" 



HUMOROUS AND LIGHT VERSE 269 

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said, 

"To play them sueh a trick, 
After we've brought them out so far, 

And made them trot so quick!" 
The Carpenter said nothing but, 

"The butter's spread too thick!" 

"I weep for you," the Walrus said: 

"I deeply sympathize:" 
With sobs and tears he sorted out 

Those of the largest size. 
Holding his pocket-handkerchief 

Before his streaming eyes. 

"0 Oysters," said the Carpenter, 

"You've had a pleasant run! 
Shall we be trotting home again?" 

But answer came there none — 
And this was scarcely odd, because 

They'd eaten every one. 



FATHER WILLIAM 

(From Alice in Wonderland) 
Lev^^is Carroll 

"You are old, father William," the young man said, 

"And your hair has become very white; 
And yet you incessantly stand on your head — 

Do you think, at your age, it is right?" 

"In my youth," father William replied to his son, 

"I feared it might injure the brain; 
But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, 

Why, I do it again and again." 

"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before, 

And have grown most uncommonly fat; 
Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door — 

Pray, what is the reason of that?" 

"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks, 
"I kept all my limbs very supple 



270 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

By the use of this ointment — one shilling the box — 
Allow me to sell you a couple." 

"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak 

For anything tougher than suet; 
fet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak — 

Pray, how did you manage to do it?" 

"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law, 

And argaied each case with my wife; 
And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw, 

Has lasted the rest of my life." ^ 

"You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose 

That your eye Avas as steady as ever; 
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose — 

What made you so awfully clever?" 

"I have answered three questions, and that is enough," 

Said his father ; "don't .give yourself airs ! 
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? 

Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!" 



DA GREAT A BASABALL 
T. A. Daly 

Oh! greata game is basaball 

For yo'nga 'Merican. 
But, oh! my fran, ees not at all 

Da theeng for Dagoman. 

Oh ! lees'en, pleass', I tal to you 

About wan game we play 
Wen grass ees green, an' sky ees blue 

An' eet ees holiday. 
Spagatti say: "We taka treep 

For play da ball, an' see 
Which side ees ween de champasheep 

For Leetla Eetaly." 
So off for Polo Groun' we go 

Weeth basaball an' bat, 
An' start da greata game, but. Oh I 

Eet ees no feenish yat! 



HUMOROUS AND LIGHT VERSE 271 

Spolatro ees da boss for side 

Dat wait for catch da ball; 
Spagatti nine ees first dat tried 

For knock eet over wall, 
An^ so Spagatti com' for bat. 

Aha! da greata man! 
Da ban's be got, so beeg, so fat, 

Ees like two bonch banan'. 
Spolatro peetch da ball, an dere 

Spagatti's bat ees sw^eeng. 
An' queeck da ball up een da air 

Ees fly like annytheeng. 
You know een deesa game ees man 

Dat's call da "lafta-fiel'." 
Wal, dees wan keep peanutta-stan' 

An' like for seetin' steel. 
An' dough' dees ball Spagatti heet 

Ees passa by liees way. 
He don'ta care a leetla beet 

Eef eet ees gon' all day. 
Da "centra-fielda man" — you know 

Dat's nex' to heem — he call; 
"Hi! why you don'ta jompa, Joe, 

An' run an' gat da ballf 
But Joe he just a seeta steel 

Teel ball ees outa sight. 
Dees mak' so mad da centra-fiel' 

He ess baygeen to fight. 
Den com'sa nudder man — you see, 

I don'ta know hees name, 
Or how you call dees man, but he 

Ees beeg man een da game. 
He ess da man dat mak' da rule 

For play da gama right. 
An' so he go for dose two fool 

Out een da fiel' dat fight. 
He push da centra-fielda 'way — 

An' soocha names he call! — 
An' den he grabba Joe an' say; 

"Com', run an' gat da ball." 
But Joe he growl an' tal heem; "No, 

Ees not for me at all. 



272 LOYOLA BOOK OF ^^ERSE 

Spagatti heet da ball, an' so 
Spagatti gat da ball !" 



THE YARN OF THE "NANCY BELL" 
W. S. Gilbert 

'Twas on the shores that round our coast 

From Deal to Ramsgate span,^ 
That I found alone on a piece of stone, 

An elderly naval man. 

His hair was weedy, his beard was long, 

And weedy and long was he, 
And I heard this wight on the shore recite 

In a singular minor key: 

"Oh, I am cook and a captain bold, 

And mate of the Nancy brig. 
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, 

And the crew of the captain's gig." 

And he shook his fists and he tore his hair, 

Till I really felt afraid; 
For I couldn't help thinking, the man had been drinking, 

And so I simply said: 

"Oh, elderly man, it's little I know. 

Of the duties of men of the sea, 
And I'll eat my hand if I understand 

How you can possibly be 

"At once a cook, and a captain bold, 

And mate of the Nancy brig. 
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite. 

And the crew of the captain's gig." 

Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which 

Is a trick all seaman larn. 
And having got rid of a thumping quid. 

He spun this painful yarn. 




* Deal, Ramsgate : Seaport towns in Kent County, England. 



HUMOROUS AND LIGHT \^RSE 273 

" 'Twas on the good ship Nancy Bell 

That we sailed the Indian sea, 
And there on a reef we came to grief, 

Which has often occurred to me. 

"And pretty nigh all of the crew was drowned 

(There was seventy-seven o^ soul), 
And only ten of the Nancy's men 

Said ^Here!' to the muster roll. 

"There was me and the cook and the captain bold, 

And mate of the Nancy brig, 
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite. 

And the crew of the captain's gig. 

"For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink. 

Till a-hungry we did feel, 
So, we drawed a lot, and accordin' shot 

The captain for our meal. 

"The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate. 

And a delicate dish he made; 
Then our appetite with the midshipmite 

We seven survivors stayed. 

"And then we murdered the bo'sun tight. 

And he much resembled pig; 
Then we whittled free, did the cook and me, 

On the crew of the captain's gig. 

"Then only the cook and me was left. 

And a delicate question, 'Which 
Of us two goes in the kettle?' arose. 

And we argued it out as sich. 

^'For I loved that cook as a brother, I did, 

And the cook he worshipped me; 
But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed, 

In the other chap's hold, you see. 

^* 'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom, 

'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be.' 
^I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I, 

And 'Exactly so,' says he. 



274 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

"Says he, ^Dear James, to murder me 

Were a foolish thing to do, 
For don't you see that you can't cook me, 

While I can — and will — cook you!' 

"So he boils the water and takes the salt 

And the pepper in portions true 
(Which he never forgot) and some chopped shalot, 

And some sage and parsley, too. 

" 'Come here,' says he, with proper pride, 

Which his smiling features tell, 
' 'Twill soothing be if I let you see 

How extremely nice you'll smell.' 

"And he stirred it round and round and round. 

And sniffed the foaming froth; 
And I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals 

In the scum of the boiling broth. 

"And I eat that cook in a week or less, 

And — as I eating be 
The last of his chops, why I almost drops, 

For a wessel in sight I see. 

"And I never larf, and I never smile, 

And I never lark nor play. 
But I sit and croak, and a single joke 

I have — Avhich is to say: 

"Oh, I am a cook and a cajDtain bold, 

And the mate of the Nancy brig. 
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, 

And the crew of the captain's gig!'^ 



HUMOROUS AND LIGHT M5RSE 275 

THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE; 

OR, THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY" 

(A Logical Story) 

Oliver Wendell Holmes 

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, 

That was built in such a logical way 

It ran a hundred years to a day, 

And then, of a sudden, it — ah, but stay, 

I'll tell you what happened without delay. 

Scaring- the parson into fits, 

Frightening people out of their wits, — 

Have you ever heard of that, I say? 

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. 
Georgius Secundus was then alive, — 
Snuffy old drone^ from the German hive. 
That was the year when Lisbon-town 
Saw the earth open and gulp her down, 
And Braddock's army was done so brown, 
Left without a scalp to its crown. 
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day 
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay. 

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what. 

There is always somewhere a weakest spot, — 

In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, 

In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill. 

In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, — lurking still. 

Find it somewhere you must and will, — 

Above or below, or within or without, — 

And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, 

That a chaise breaks down, but doesn't ivear out. 

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do. 

With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeoiC^) 

He would build one shay to beat the taown 

'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; 

It should be so built that it couldn' break daown. 



Reprinted by permission of, and by special arrangement with, Hough- 
ton Miiflin Companv. 

^Snuffy old drone, etc.: George II of England belonged to the Ger- 
man House of Hanover. 



276 LOYOLA BOOK OF ^TSRSE 

"Fur," said the Deacon, " 't's mighty plain 
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain; 
'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, 

Is only jest 
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest." 

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk 

Where he could find the strongest oak, 

That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke, — 

That was for spokes and floor and sills; 

He sent for lancewood to make the thills; 

The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees, 

The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese. 

But lasts like iron for things like these; 

The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum," — 
Last of its timber, — they couldn't sell 'em, 
Never an axe had seen their chips, 
And the wedges flew from between their lips, 
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery tips; 
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, 
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too. 
Steel of the finest, bright and blue; 
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; 
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide 
Found in the pit when the tanner died. 
That was the way he "put her through," 
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!" 

Do! I tell you, I rather guess 
She was a wonder, and nothing less! 
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray. 
Deacon and deaconess dropped away. 
Children and grandchildren — where were they? 
But there stood the stout old one-hpss shay 
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day! 

Eighteen hundred; it came and found 
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. 
Eighteen hundred increased by ten; — 
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. 
Eighteen hundred and twenty came; — 
Running as usual; much the same. 



HUMOROUS AND LIGHT VERSE 277 

Thirty and forty at last arrive, 
And then come fifty, and fifty-five. 

Little of all we value here 

Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year 

Without both feeling and looking queer. 

In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, 

So far as I know, but a tree and truth. 

(This is a moral that runs at large; 

Take it. — You're welcome. — No extra charge.) 

First. OF November^ — the Earthquake-day, — 
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, 
A general flavor of mild decay. 
But nothing local, as one may say. 
There couldn't be, — for the Deacon's art 
Had made it so like in every part 
That there wasn't a chance for one to start. 
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, 
And the floor was just as strong as the sills, 
And the panels just as strong as the floor, 
And the whipple-tree neither less nor more. 
And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore. 
And spring and axle and hub encore. 
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt 
In another hour it will be icorn out! 

First of November, 'Fifty-five! 
This morning the parson takes a drive. 
Now, small boys, get out of the way! 
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay. 
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. 
"Huddup !" said the parson. — Off went they. 
The parson was working his Sundaj^'s text, — 
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed 
At what the — Moses — was coming next. 
All at once the horse stood still, 
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. 
First a shiver, and then a thrill. 
Then something decidedly like a spill, — 

And the parson was sitting upon a rock, 
At half past nine by the meet'n'-house clock, 
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock! 



278 T.OYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

What do you think the parson found, 
When he got up and stared around? 
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, 
As if it had been to the mill and ground ! 
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce. 
How it went to pieces all at once — 
All at once, and nothing first, — 
Just as bubbles do when they burst. 

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. 
Logic is logic. That's all I sav. 



FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY 

(A Pathetic Ballad) 
Thomas Hood 

Ben Battle was a soldier bold. 
And used to war's alarms; 

But a cannon-ball took off his legs. 
So he laid down his arms! 

Now as they bore him off the field, 
Said he, "Let other's shoot, 

For here I leave my second leg, 
And the Forty-second Foot!" 

The army-surgeons made him limbs; 

Said he, — "They're only pegs; 
But there's as wooden members quite. 

As represent my legs!" 

Now Ben he loved a pretty maid. 
Her name was Nellie Gray; 

So he went to pay her his devours, 
When he'd devoured his pay. 

But when he called on Nelly Gray! 

She made him quite a scoff; 
And when she saw his wooden legs. 

Began to take them off ! 

"0 Nelly Gray! Nelly Gray! 
Is this vour love so warm? 



HUMOROUS AND UIGHT VERSE 279 

The love that loves a scarlet coat, 
Should be more unifoiTa!" 

Said she, "I loved a soldier once, 

For he was blithe and brave; 
But I will never have a man 

With both legs in the grave ! 

"Before you had those timber toes, 

Your love I did allow. 
But then, you know, you stand upon 

Another footing now!" 

"0 Nelly Gray! Nelly Gray! 

For all your jeering speeches. 
At duty's call I left my legs 

In Badajos's^ breaches!" 

"Why, then," said she, "you've lost the feet 

Of legs in war's alarms, 
And now you cannot wear your shoes 

Upon your feats of arms!" 

"0 false and fickle Nelly Gray! 

I know w^hy you refuse; — 
Though I've no feet— some other man 

Is standing in my shoes ! 

"I wish I ne'er had seen your face; 

But, now, a long farewell ! 
For you will be my death; — alas! 

You will not be my Nell!" 

Now when he went from Nelly Gray, 

His heart so heavy got — 
And life was such a burden grown, 

It made him take a knot! 

So round his melancholy neck, 

A rope he did entwine. 
And, for his second time in life. 

Enlisted in the Line! 

One end he tied around a beam. 
And then removed his pegs. 



^ Badajos : A city of south-western Spain, besieged in 1812. 



280 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

And, as his legs were off, — of course, 
He soon was off his legs! 

And there he hung, till he was dead 

As any nail in town, — 
For though distress had cut him up, 

It could not cut him down. 

A dozen men sat on his corpse, 
To find out why he died — 

And they buried Ben at four cross-roads 
With a stake in his inside! 



PARODIES^ 

Carolyn Wells 

Theme 

There was a young lady of Niger 
Who smiled as she rode on a tiger; 

The}^ came back from the ride 

With the lady inside, 
And tlie smile on the face of the tiger. 

Chaucer 

A Mayde there ben in Niger born and bredde; 
Hire merrj'e smyle went neere about her hedde, 
Upon a beeste she rood, a tyger gaye, 
And sikerly she laughen on hire waye. 
Anon as it befel, bak from the ryde 
There came, liis sadel hangen doone bisyde, 
The Tyger. On his countenaunce the whyle 
There ben behelde a gladness ai^ie^ a smyle. 

Dobson 

She went for a ride, 

That young lady of Niger; 

Her smile was quite wide; 

As she went for a ride; 

But she came back inside 

With the smile on the tiger. 



^ Reprinted by permission of the author, 



HUMOROUS AND LIGHT VERSE 281 

She went for a ride, 

That young lady of Niger. 

Omar 

Why, if the Soul can fling the dust aside 
And smiling on the tiger blithely ride, 

Were't not a shame — were't not a shame for him 
In stupid Niger tamely to abide? 

Strange, is it not? that of the Myriads who 
Before us ride the sandy desert through, 

Not one returns to tell us of the Road 

Which to discover we ride smiling too? 

We are no other than a moving Row 

Of magic Night-shapes that come and go 

Round with a smile — illumined Tiger held 
In midnight by the Master of the Show. 

Tennyson 

Half a league; half a league 

On the old tiger, 
Rode with a smiling face 

The lady of Niger. 
Mad rushed the noble steed; 
Smiled she and took no heed. 
Smiled at the breakneck speed 

Of the big tiger. 

Boldly they plunged and swayed, 
Fearless and unafraid. 
Tiger and lovely maid, 

Fair and beguiling; 
Flashed she her sunny smiles. 
Flashed o'er the sunny miles; 
Then they rode back but not — 

Not the same smiling. 

When can their glory fade? 

0, the wild charge they made ■ 

Riding from Niger. 
Honor the ride they made; 
Honor the smiles displayed. 

Lady and Tiger. 



282 LOYOLA BOOK OF VERSE 

Kipling 

"What is the lady smiling for?" said Files-on-Parade. 
"She's going for a tiger ride/' the color sergeant said. 
"What makes her smile so gay, so gayf said Files-on-Parade. 
"She likes to go for tiger rides," the color sergeant said. 
"For she's riding on the tiger, you can see his stately stride; 
When they're returning home again, she'll take a seat inside. 
And on the tiger's face will be the smile so bland and wide. 
For she's riding on the tiger in the morning." 

Browning 
The Last Ride Together 

(The Tiger Speaks.) 

"Since now at length your fate you know," 

I said, "then, dearest, since 'tis so, 

Since nothing all your smile avails. 

Since all your life seems meant for fails, 

Henceforth you ride inside." 
Who know's w^hat's best? Ah, who can tell? 
I loved the lady. Therefore — well — 
I shuddered, yet it had to be; 
And so together I and she 

Ride, ride, forever ride. 

Swinburne 

Oh, marvellous mystical maiden. 

With the way of the wind on the wing; 
Low laughter thy lithe lips hath laden. 

Thy smile is the song of the spring. 
Oh, typical, topical tiger. 

With wicked and wheedlesome wiles; 
Oh, lovely lost lady of Niger, 

Our Lady of Smiles. 

Poe 

See the lady with a smile, 
Sunny smile! 
Hear her gaysome, gleesome giggle as she rides along in style ! 
How the merry laughter trips 
I'rom her red and rosy lips, 



HUMOROUS AND LIGHT VERSE 283 

As she smiles, smiles, smiles, smiles, smiles, smiles, smiles. 
While she rides along the dusty desert miles. 

See the tiger smile, 
Happy smile! 
If such a smile means happiness, he's happy quite a pile. 
How contentedly he chuckles 
As he trots along the miles. 
Oh, he doesn't growl or groan 
As he ambles on alone; 
But he smiles, smiles, smiles, smiles, smiles, smiles, smiles, 
As he homeward goes along the desert miles. 

Longfellow 

Oh, the fair and lovely lady; 

Oh, the sweet and winsome lady; 

With a smile of gentle goodness, , 

Like the lovely laughing water. 

Oh, the day the lovely lady 

Went to ride upon a tiger. 

Came the tiger home returning. 

Homeward through the dusky twilight; 

Ever slower, slower, slower. 

Walked the tiger o'er the landscape; 

Ever wider, wider, wider. 

Spread the smile o'er all his features. 



LBd 



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